THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Robert  Koshland 


Diana  is^^^^^-ss^-g^ 
of  the  Crossways  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

-*  *  if  -*  -^  by  George  Meredith 


Chicago  and  New  York  ♦  «  * 

Rand,  McNally  &  Company 


.^ 


GIFI 


DIANA  OF  THE  CROSSWAYS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
OF  DIARIES  AND  DIARISTS  TOUCHING  THE  HEROINE. 

Among  the  Diaries  beginning  with  the  second  quarter  of  \( 
our  century  there  is  frequent  mention  of  a  lady  then  be- 
coming famous  for  her  beauty  and  her  wit:  "an  unusual 
combination,"  in  the  deliberate  syllables  of  one  of  the  writers, 
who  is,  however,  not  disposed  to  personal  irony  when  speak-  , 
ing  of  her.  It  is  otherwise  in  his  case:  and  a  general  fling 
at  the  sex  we  may  deem  pardonable,  for  doing  as  little  harm 
to  womankind  as  the  stone  of  an  urchin  cast  upon  the  bosom 
of  mother  Earth;  though  men  must  look  some  day  to  have 
it  returned  to  them,  which  is  a  certainty;  and,  indeed,  full 
surely  will  our  idle-handed  youngster,  too,  in  his  riper  sea- 
son, be  heard  complaining  of  a  strange  assault  of  wanton 
missiles,  coming  on  him  he  knows  not  whence:  for  we  are 
all  of  us  distinctly  marked  to  get  back  what  we  give,  even 
from  the  thing  named  inanimate  nature. 

The  "Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  Henry  Wilmers"  are 
studded  with  examples  of  the  dinner-table  wit  of  the  time, 
not  always  worth  quotation  twice;  for  smart  remarks  have 
their  measured  distances,  many  requiring  to  be  a  hrule  pour- 
point,  or  within  throw  of  the  pistol,  to  make  it  hit;  in  other 
words,  the  majority  of  them  are  addressed  directly  to  our 
muscular  system,  and  they  have  no  effect  when  we  stand 
beyond  the  range.  On  the  contrar}^,  they  reflect  somberly 
on  the  springs  of  hilarity  in  the  generation  preceding  us — 
with  due  resen-e  of  credit,  of  course,  to  an  animal  vivacious-  .i 
ness  that  seems  to  have  wanted  so  small  an  incitement.  Ouf 
old  yeomanry  farmers,  returning  to  their  beds  over  ferny 
commons  under  bright  moonlight  from  a  neighbor's  harvest- 
home,  eased  their  bubbling  breasts  with  a  ready  roar  not 
unakin  to  it.  Still  the  promptness  to  laugh  is  an  excellent 
progenitorial  foundation  for  the  wit  to  come  in  a  people;  and 

M899;i56 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWATS. 


undoubtedly  the  diarial  record  of  an  imputed  piece  of  wit  is 
witness  to  the  spouting  of  laughter.  This  should  comfort 
us  while  we  skim  the  sparkling  passages  of  the  "Leaves." 
When  a  nation  has  acknowledged  that  it  is  as  yet  but  in  the 
fisticujff  stage  of  the  art  of  condensing  our  purest  sense  to 
golden  sentences,  a  readier  appreciation  will  be  extended  to 
the  gift,  which  is  to  strike,  not  the  dazzled  eyes,  the  unan- 
ticipating  nose,  the  ribs,  the  sides,  and  stun  us,  twirl  us, 
hoodwink,  mystify,  tickle  and  twitch,  by  dexterities  of  lingual 
sparring  and  shuffling,  but  to  strike  roots  in  the  mind,  the 
^esperides  of  good  things. 
.y    We  shall  then  set  a  price  on  the  "unusual  combination." 

i/A  witty  woman  is  a  treasure;    a  witty  Beauty  is  a  power. 

\  Has  she  actual  beauty,  actual  wit? — not  simply  a  tidal  ma- 
V^  terial  beauty  that  passes  current  any  pretty  flippancy  or  stag- 

\  gering  pretentiousness?  Grant  the  combination,  she  will 
appear  a  veritable  queen  of  her  period,  fit  for  homage;  at 
,  least  meriting  a  disposition  to  believe  the  best  of  her  in 
the  teeth  of  foul  rumor;  because  the  well  of  true  wit  is 
Jtruth  itself,  the  gathering  6£  the^Tecfous^drop^'Cf^'TTgEir" 
reason,  wisdom's  lightning;  and  no  soul  possessing  and  dis- 
pensing it  can  justly  be  a  target  for  the  world  however  well- 
armed  the  world  confronting  her.  Qur  temporary  world, 
that  Old  Credulity  and  stone-hurling  urchin  in  one,  sup- 
poses it  possible  for  a  woman  to  be  mentally  active  up  to  the 
point  of  spiritual  clarity  and  also  fleshly  vile;  a  guide  to 
life  and  a  biter  at  the  fruits  of  death;  both  open  mind 
and  hypocrite.  It  has  not  yet  been  taught  to  appreciate  a 
quality  certifying  to  sound  citizenship  as  authoritatively  as 
acres  of  land  in  fee  simple,  or  coffers  of  bonds,  shares,  and 
stocks,  and  a  more  imperishable  guarantee.  The  multitude 
of  evil  reports  which  it  takes  for  proof  are  marshaled  against 
her  without  question  of  the  nature  of  the  victim,  her  tempt- 
ress beauty  being  a  sufficiently  presumptive  delinquent.  It 
does  not  pretend  to  know  the  whole,  or  naked  body,  of  the 
facts;  it  knows  enough  for  its  fumy  dubiousness;  and  except- 
ing the  sentimental  of  men,  a  rocket-headed  horde,  ever  at 
the  heels  of  fair  faces  for  ignition,  and  up  starring  away  at 
a  hint  of  tearfulness;  excepting  further  by  chance  a  solid 
champion  man,  some  generous  woman  capable  of  faith  in 
the  pelted  solitary  of  her  sex,  our  temporary  world  blows 
direct  East  on  her  shivering  person.    The  scandal  is  warrant 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  7 

for  that;  the  circumstances  of  the  scandal  emphasize  the 
warrant.  And  how  clever  she  is!  Cleverness  is  an  attribute 
of  the  selecter  missionary  lieutenants  of  Satan.  We  pray 
to  be  defended  from  her  cleverness:  she  flashes  bits  of  speech 
that  catch  men  in  their  unguarded  corner.  The  wary  stuff 
their  ears,  the  stolid  bid  her  best  sayings  rebound  on  her 
reputation.  Nevertheless  the  world,  as  Christian,  remembers 
its  professions,  and  a  portion  of  it  joins  the  burly  in  morals 
by  extending  to  her  a  rough  old  charitable  mercifulness;  bet- 
ter than  sentimental  ointment,  but  the  heaviest  blow  she  has 
to  bear,  to  a  character  swimming  for  life. 

That  the  lady  in  question  was  much  quoted  the  Diaries 
and  Memoirs  testify.  Hearsay  as  well  as  hearing  was  at 
work  to  produce  the  abundance;  and  it  was  a  novelty  in 
England,  where  (in  company)  the  men  are  the  pointed  talk- 
ers and  the  women  conversationally  fair  Circassians.  They 
are,  or  they  know  that  they  should  be;  it  comes  to  the  same. 
Happily  our  civilization  has  not  prescribed  the  veil  to  them. 
The  mutes  have  here  and  there  a  sketch  or  label  attached 
to  their  names:  they  are  "strikingly  handsome";  they  are 
"very  good-looking";  occasionally  they  are  noted  as  "ex- 
tremely entertaining":  in  what  manner,  is  inquired  by  a 
curious  posterity,  that  in  so  many  matters  is  left  unendingly 
to  jump  the  empty  and  gaping  figure  of  interrogation  over 
its  own  full  stop.  Great  ladies  must  they  be,  at  the  web 
of  politics,  for  us  to  hear  them  cited  discoursing.  Henry  ^/ 
Wilmers  is  not  content  to  quote  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Warwick' 
— he  attempts  a  portrait.  Mrs.  Warwick  is  "quite  Grecian." 
She  might  "pose  for  a  statue."  He  presents  her  in  carpen- 
ter's lines,  with  a  dab  of  school-box  colors,  effective  to  those 
whom  the  Keepsake  fashion  can  stir.  She  has  a  straight 
nose,  red  lips,  raven  hair,  black  eyes,  rich  complexion,  a 
remarkably  fine  bust,  and  she  walks  well,  and  has  an  agreeable 
voice;  likewise  "delicate  extremities."  The  writer  was  created 
for  popularity  had  he  chosen  to  bring  his  art  into  our  literary 
market. 

'  Perry  Wilkinson  is  not  so  elaborate;   he  describes  her  in*^ 
his  "Recollections"   as   a  splendid  brune,   eclipsing  all  theL 
blondes  coming  near  her;   and,  "what  is  more,  the  beautiful  f 
creature  can  talk."    He  wondered,  for  she  was  young,  newy 
to  society.     Subsequently  he  is  rather  ashamed  of  his  won- 


8  DIANA   OF  THE   CROSSWAYS. 

derment,  and  accounts  for  it  by  "not  having  known  she  was 
Irish/'    She  "turns  out  to  be  Dan  Merion's  daughter." 

We  may  assume  that  he  would  have  heard  if  she  had  any 
whiff  of  a  brogue.  Her  sounding  of  the  letter  E  a  trifle 
scrupulously  is  noticed  by  Lady  Pennon:  "And  last,  not 
least,  the  lovely  Mrs.  Warwick,  twenty  minutes  behind  the 
dinner-hour,  and  r-r-really  fearing  she  was  late."  After 
alluding  to  the  soft  influence  of  her  beauty  and  ingenuous- 
ness on  the  vexed  hostess,  the  kindly  old  marchioness  adds, 
that  it  was  no  wonder  she  was  late,  "for  Just  before  starting 
from  home  she  had  broken  loose  from  her  husband  for  good, 
and  she  entered  the  room  absolutely  houseless!"  She  was 
not  the  less  "astonishingly  brilliant."  Her  observations  were 
often  "so  unexpectedly  droll  I  laughed  till  I  cried."  Lady 
Pennon  became,  in  consequence,  one  of  the  staunch  supporters 
of  Mrs.  Warwick. 

Others  were  not  so  easily  won.  Perry  Wilkinson  holds  a 
balance  when  it  goes  beyond  a  question  of  her  wit  and  beauty. 
Henry  Wilmers  puts  the  case  aside,  and  takes  her  as  he 
finds  her.  His  cousin,  the  clever  and  cynical  Dorset  Wilmers, 
whose  method  of  conveying  his  opinions  without  stating  them 
was  famous,  repeats  on  two  occasions,  when  her  name  appears 
in  his  pages,  "handsome,  lively,  witty";  and  the  stressed 
repetition  of  calculated  brevity,  while  a  fiery  scandal  was 
abroad  concerning  the  lady,  implies  weighty  substance — the 
reservation  of  a  constable's  truncheon,  that  could  legally 
have  knocked  her  character  down  to  the  pavement.  We 
have  not  to  ask  what  he  judged.  But  Dorset  Wilmers  was 
a  political  opponent  of  the  eminent  Peer  who  yields  the 
second  name  to  the  scandal,  and  politics  in  his  day  flushed 
the  conceptions  of  men.  His  short  references  to  "that  War- 
wick-Dannisburgh  affair"  are  not  verbally  malicious.  He 
gets  wind  of  the  terms  of  Lord  Dannisburgh's  will  and  testa- 
ment, noting  them  without  comment.  The  oddness  of  the 
instrument  in  one  respect  may  have  served  his  turn;  we 
have  no  grounds  for  thinking  him  malignant.  The  death  of 
his  enemy  closes  his  allusions  to  Mrs.  Warwick.  He  was 
growing  ancient,  and  gout  narrowed  the  circle  he  whirled 
in.  Had  he  known  this  "handsome,  lively,  witty"  apparition 
as  a  woman  having  political  and  social  views  of  her  own, 
he  would  not,  one  fancies,  have  been  so  stingless.  Our 
England  exposes  a  sorry  figure  in  his  Eeminiscences.     He 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  9 

struck  heavily,  round  and  about  liim,  wherever  he  moved; 
he  had  by  nature  a  tarnishing  eye  that  cast  discoloration. 
His  unadorned  harsh  substantive  statements,  excluding  the  ad- 
jectives, give  his  Memoirs  the  appearance  of  a  body  of  facts, 
attractive  to  the  historic  Muse,  which  has  learnt  to  esteem 
those  brawny,  sturdy  giants  marching  club  on  shoulder,  inde- 
pendent of  henchmen,  in  preference  to  your  panoplied  knights 
with  their  puffy  squires,  once  her  favorites,  and  wind-filling 
to  her  columns,  ultimately  foimd  indigestible. 

His  exhibition  of  his  enemy.  Lord  Dannisburgh,  is  of  the 
class  of  noble  portraits  we  see  swinging  over  inn-portals, 
grossly  unlike  in  likeness.  The  possibility  of  the  man's 
doing  or  sajdng  this  and  that  adumbrates  the  improbability: 
he  had  something  of  the  character  capable  of  it,  too  much 
good  sense  for  the  performance.  We  would  think  so,  and 
still  the  shadow  is  round  our  thoughts.  Lord  Dannisburgh 
was  a  man  of  ministerial  tact,  official  ability.  Pagan  moral- 
ity; an  excellent  general  manager,  if  no  genius  in  statecraft. 
But  he  was  careless  of  social  opinion,  unbuttoned,  and  a 
laugher.  We  know  that  he  could  be  chivalrous  towards 
women,  notwithstanding  the  perplexities  he  brought  on  them, 
and  this  the  Dorset-Diary  does  not  show. 

His  chronicle  is  less  mischievous  as  regards  Mrs.  Warwick 
than  the  paragraphs  of  Perry  Wilkinson,  a  gossip  present- 
ing an  image  of  perpetual  chatter,  like  the  waxen-faced  street- 
advertisements  of  light  and  easy  dentistry.  He  has  no  be- 
lief, no  disbelief;  names  the  pro-party  and  the  con;  recites 
the  case,  and  discreetly,  over-discreetly;  and  pictures  the 
trial,  tells  the  list  of  witnesses,  records  the  verdict:  so  the 
case  went,  and  some  thought  one  thing,  some  another  thing: 
only  it  is  reported  for  positive  that  a  miniature  of  the  in- 
criminated lady  was  cleverly  smuggled  over  to  the  jury,  and 
juries  sitting  upon  these  cases,  ever  since  their  bedazzlement 
by  Phryne,  as  you  know  ....  And  then  he  relates  an 
anecdote  of  the  husband,  said  to  have  been  not  a  bad  fellow 
before  he  married  his  Diana; — and  the  naming  of  the  Goddess 
reminds  him  that  the  second  person  in  the  indictment  is 
now  everywhere  called  "the  elderly  shepherd"; — but  imme- 
diately after  the  bridal-bells  this  husband  became  sour  and 
insupportable;  and  either  she  had  the  trick  of  putting  him 
publicly  in  the  wrong  or  he  lost  all  shame  in  playing  the 
churlish  domestic  tyrant.    The  instances  are  incredible  of  a 


10  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

;  gentleman.  Perry  Wilkinson  gives  ns  two  or  three:  one 
^  on  the  authority  of  a  personal  friend  who  witnessed  the  scene 
;'  at  the  Warwick  whist-table,  where  the  fair  Diana  would  let 
t  loose  her  silvery  laugh  in  the  intervals.  She  was  hardly 
out  of  her  teens,  and  should  have  been  dancing  instead  of 
fastened  to  a  table.  A  difference  of  fifteen  years  in  the  ages 
of  the  wedded  pair  accounts  poorly  for  the  husband's  con- 
duct, however  solemn  a  business  the  game  of  whist.  We 
read  that  he  burst  out  at  last,  with  bitter  mimicry,  "Yang, 
yang,  yang!"  and  killed  the  bright  laugh — shot  it  dead. 
She  had  outraged  the  decorum  of  the  square  table  only 
while  the  cards  were  making.  Perhaps  her  too-dead  ensuing 
silence,  as  of  one  striving  to  bring  back  the  throbs  to  a  slain 
\  bird  in  her  bosom,  allowed  the  gap  between  the  wedded  pair 
J  to  be  visible,  for  it  was  dated  back  to  prophecy  as  soon  as 
(  the  trumpet  proclaimed  it. 

But  a  multiplication  of  similar  instances,  which  can  serve 

no  other  purpose  than  that  of  an  apology,  is  a  miserable 

vindication  of  innocence.     The  more  we  have  of  them  the 

darker  the  inference.     In  delicate  situations  the  chatterer  is 

noxious.     Mrs.  Warwick   had  numerous   apologists.     Those 

trusting  to  her  perfect  rectitude  were  rarer.     The  liberty 

she  allowed  herself  in  speech  and  action  must  have  been 

trying  to  her  defenders  in  a  land  like  ours;    for  here,  and 

\  able  to  throw  its  shadow  on  our  giddy  upper  circle,  the  rigor 

I  of  the  game  of  life,  relaxed  though  it  may  sometimes  appear, 

/*would  satisfy  the  staidest  whist-player.     She  did  not  wish 

f  it  the  reverse,  even  when  claiming  a  space  for  laughter,  "the 

breath  of  her  soul,"  as  she  called  it,  and  as  it  may  be  felt 

in  the  early  youth  of  a  lively  nature.     She,  especially,  with 

her  multitude  of  quick  perceptions  and  imaginative  avenues, 

her  rapid  summaries,  her  sense  of  the  comic,  demanded  this 

aerial  freedom. 

We  have  it  from  Perry  Wilkinson  that  the  union  of  the 
divergent  couple  was  likened  to  another  union  always  in  a 
court  of  law.  There  was  a  distinction;  most  analogies  will 
furnish  one;  and  here  we  see  England  and  Ireland  changing 
their  parts,  until  later,  after  the  breach,  when  the  English- 
man and  Irishwoman  resumed  a  certain  resemblance  to  the 
yoked  islands. 

Henry  Wilmers,  I  have  said,  deals  exclusively  with  the 
wit  and  charm  of  the  woman.    He  treats  the  scandal  as  we 


DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  11 

might  do  in  like  manner  if  her  story  had  not  to  he  told. 
But  these  are  not  reporting  columns;  very  little  of  it  shall 
trouble  them.  The  position  is  faced,  and  that  is  all.  The 
position  is  one  of  the  battles  incident  to  ^vomen — their  hardest. 
It  asks  for  more  than  justice  from  men,  for  generosity,  our 
civilization  not  being  yet  of  the  purest.  That  cry  of  hounds 
at  her  disrobing  by  Law  is  instinctive.  She  runs,  and  they 
give  tongue;  she  is  a  creature  of  the  chase.  Let  her  escape 
unmangled,  it  will  pass  in  the  record  that  she  did  once 
publicly  run,  and  some  old  dogs  will  persist  in  thinking  her 
cunninger  than  the  virtuous,  which  never  put  themselves  in 
such  positions,  but  ply  the  distaff  at  home.  Xever  should 
reputation  of  woman  trail  a  scent!  How  true!  and  true  also 
that  the  w^omen  of  waxwork  never  do;  and  that  the  women 
of  hap^Dy  marriages  do  not;  nor  the  women  of  holy  nun- 
neries; nor  the  women  lucky  in  their  arts.  It  is  a  test  of 
the  civilized  to  see  and  hear,  and  add  no  yapping  to  the 
spectacle.  / 

Thousands  have  reflected  on  a  Diarist's  power  to  cancel 
our  Burial  Service.  Not  alone  the  cleric's  good  work  is 
upset  by  him,  but  the  sexton's  as  well.  He  howks  the  graves, 
and  transforms  the  quiet  worms,  busy  on  a  single  poor  peace- 
able body,  into  winged  serpents  that  disorder  sky  and  earth 
with  a  deadly  flight  of  zig-zags,  like  military  rockets,  among 
the  living.  And  if  these  are  given  to  cry  too  much,  to  havej 
their  tender  sentiments  considered,  it  cannot  be  said  that 
history  requires  the  flaying  of  them.  A  gouty  Diarist,  a  sheer 
gossip  Diarist,  may  thus,  in  the  bequest  of  a  trail  of  remi- 
niscences, explode  our  temples  (for  our  very  temples  have 
powder  in  store),  our  treasuries,  our  homesteads,  alive  with 
dynamitic  stuff;  nay,  disconcert  our  inherited  veneration, 
dislocate  the  intimate  connection  between  the  tugged  flaxen 
forelock  and  a  title. 

No  similar  blame  is  incurred  by  Henry  Wilmers.  No  blame 
whatever,  one  would  say,  if  he  had  been  less  copious,  or  not 
so  subservient,  in  recording  the  lady's  utterances;  for  though 
the  wit  of  a  woman  may  be  terse,  quite  spontaneous,  as  hers 
assuredly  was  here  and  there,  she  is  apt  to  spin  it  out  of  a 
museful  mind,  at  her  toilette,  or  by  the  lonely  fire,  and  some- 
times it  is  imitative;  admirers  should  beware  of  holding 
it  up  to  the  withering  glare  of  print;  she  herself,  quoting 
an  obscure  maxim-monger,  says  of  these  lapidary  sentences 


12  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

that  they  have  merely  "the  value  of  chalk-eggs,  which  lure 
the  thinker  to  sit/'  and  tempt  the  vacuous  to  strain  for  the 
like,  one  might  add;  hesides  flattering  the  world  to  imagine 
itself  richer  than  it  is  in  eggs  that  are  golden.  Henry  Wil- 
mers  notes  a  multitude  of  them.  The  talk  fell  upon  our 
being  creatures  of  habit,  and  how  far  it  was  good;  she  said, 
"It  is  there  that  we  see  ourselves  crutched  between  love  grown 
old  and  indifference  ageing  to  love."  Critic  ears  not  present 
at  the  conversation  catch  an  echo  of  maxims  and  aphorisms 
overchannel,  notwithstanding  a  feminine  thrill  in  the  irony 
of  "ageing  to  love."  The  quotation  ranks  rather  among  the 
testimonies  to  her  charm. 

She  is  fresher  when  speaking  of  the  war  of  the  sexes. 
For  one  sentence  out  of  many,  though  we  find  it  to  be  but 
the  clever  literary  clothing  of  a  common  accusation:  ''Men 
may  have  rounded  Seraglio  Point:  they  have  not  yet  doubled 
Cape  Turk.'' 

It  is  war,  and,  on  the  male  side,  Ottoman  war;  her  ex- 
perience reduced  her  to  think  so  positively.  Her  main  per- 
sonal experience  was  of  the  social  class  which  is  primitively 
venatorial  still,  canine  under  its  polish. 

She  held  a  brief  for  her  beloved  Ireland.  She  closes  a  dis- 
cussion upon  Irish  agitation  by  sajdng  rather  neatly:  ''You 
have  taught  them  it  is  English  as  well  as  common  human 
nature  to  feel  an  ifiterest  in  the  dog  that  has  titten  you.'' 

The  dog  periodically  puts  on  madness  to  win  attention. 
We  gather  then  that  England,  in  an  angry  tremor,  tries  him 
with  water-gruel  to  prove  him  sane. 

Of  the  Irish  priest  (and  she  was  not  of  his  retinue),  when 
he  was  deemed  a  revolutionary,  Henry  Wilmers  notes  her 
saying:  "Be  in  tune  with  him;  he  is  in  the  key-note  for 
harmony.  He  is  shepherd,  doctor,  nurse,  comforter,  anec- 
dotist,  and  fun-maker  to  his  poor  flock;  and  you  wonder  they 
see  the  burning  gateway  of  their  heaven  in  him?  Conciliate 
the  priest." 

It  has  been  partly  done,  done  late,  when  the  poor  flock 
have  found  their  doctoring  and  shepherding  at  other  hands; 
their  "bulb-food  and  fiddle,"  that  she  petitioned  for,  to  keep 
them  from  a  complete  shaving  off  their  patch  of  bog  and 
scrub  soil,  without  any  perception  of  the  tremendous  trans- 
atlantic magnification  of  the  fiddle,  and  the  splitting  discord 
of  its  latest  inspiriting  jig. 


DIANA  OF  THE  CROSSWAYS.  13 

And  she  will  not  have  the  consequences  of  the  "weariful 
old  Irish  duel  between  Honor  and  Hunger  judged  by  bread- 
and-butter  juries/' 

She  had  need  to  be  beautiful  to  be  tolerable  in  days  when 
Englishmen  stood  more  openly  for  the  strong  arm  to  main- 
tain the  Union.    Her  troop  of  enemies  was  of  her  summoning. 

Ordinarily  her  topics  were  of  wider  range,  and  those  of  a 
woman  who  mixed  hearing  with  reading,  and  observation 
with  her  musings.  She  has  no  doleful  ejaculatory  notes,  of 
the  kind  peculiar  to  women  at  war,  containing  one-third  of 
speculative  substance  to  two  of  sentimental — a  feminine  plea 
for  comprehension  and  a  squire;  and  it  was  probably  the 
reason  (as  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  an  emotional  cause) 
why  she  exercised  her  evident  sway  over  the  mind  of  so 
plain  and  straightforward  an  Englishman  as  Henry  Wilmers. 
She  told  him  that  she  read  rapidly,  "a  great  deal  at  one 
gulp,"  and  thought  in  flashes — a  way  with  the  makers  of 
phrases.  She  wrote,  she  confessed,  laboriously.  The  desire 
to  prune,  compress,  overcharge,  was  a  torment  to  the  ner- 
vous woman  writing  under  a  sharp  necessity  for  payment. 
Her  songs  were  shot  off  on  the  impulsion;  prose  was  the 
heavy  task.  ^To  be  pointedly  rational,"  she  said,  "is  a 
greater  difficulty  to  me  than  a  fine  delirium."  She  did  not 
talk  as  if  it  would  have  been  so,  he  remarks.  One  is  not 
astonished  at  her  appearing  an  "actress"  to  the  flat-minded. 
But  the  basis  of  her  woman's  nature  was  pointed  flame.  In 
the  fullness  of  her  history  we  perceive  nothing  histrionic. 
Capricious  or  enthusiastic  in  her  youth,  she  never  trifled  with 
feeling;  and  if  she  did  so  with  some  showy  phrases  and  occa- 
sionally proffered  commonplaces  in  gilt,  as  she  was  much 
excited  to  do,  her  moods  of  reflection  were  direct,  always 
large  and  honest,  universal  as  well  as  feminine.  / 

Her  saying  that  "A  woman  in  the  pillory  restores  the/ 
original  bark  of  brotherhood  to  mankind,"  is  no  more  than 
cry  of  personal  anguish.  She  has  golden  apples  in  her  apron. 
She  says  of  life:  ''Wien  I  fail  to  clierish  it  in  every  filer 
the  fires  within  are  waning,^^  and  that  drives  like  rain  to 
the  roots.  She  says  of  the  world,  generously,  if  with  taper- 
ing idea:  "From  the  point  of  vision  of  the  angels,  this  ugly 
monster,  only  half  out  of  slime,  must  appear  our  one  con- 
stant hero." 


14  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

It  can  be  read  maliciously,  but  abstain. 

She  says  of  Eomance:  ^^Tlie  young  who  avoid  that  region 
escape  the  title  of  I'ool  at  the  cost  of  a  celestial  crown,"  Of 
Poetry:    "Those  that  have  souls  meet  their  fellows  there/' 

The  excerpts  italicized  are  from  Henry  Wilmers. 

Her  summary  of  the  agency  of  Credit  and  Debit  is  humanely 
malicious,  but  recalls  her  father  to  remind  us  of  the  comic 
sparkle  he  would  have  informed  it  with:  "They  are  reserved 
to  tickle  the  primary  relations  of  men  and  men,  suggesting 
a  maturer." 

Of  these  primary  relations:  "We  are  connected  with  the 
original  tendency  of  men  to  eat  one  another,  by  mounted 
stages,  by  linked  ties;  and  at  any  instant  to  blink  the  fact 
or  stop  refining  on  the  appetite  is  dangerous  to  civilization, 
as  it  is  to  the  thrones  of  rulers  when  they  forget  that  the 
world  grows  from  molars/' 

The  sentence  wants  more  working  to  line  the  thought;  or, 
if  you  will,  the  thought  to  nib  expression.  There  is  a  broad 
thought,  significant  of  an  attitude  of  mind  opposed  to  the 
sentimental — the  melodists  upon  life  and  the  world — con- 
cerning whom  she  says  acutely,  "They  have  the  bad  trick  of 
dosing  subjects  proper  to  the  intellect  with  sensational  va- 
pors;" and  so  they  set  a  sensual  world  in  motion,  as  much 
under  guidance  as  a  smoke  beneath  winds.  The  sentimental 
people,  in  her  phrase,  '^fiddle  harmonics  on  the  strings  of 
sensualism/'  to  the  delight  of  a  world  gaping  for  marvels 
of  musical  execution  rather  than  for  music.  For  our  world 
is  all  but  a  sensational  world  at  present,  in  maternal  travail 
of  a  soberer,  a  braver,  a  brighter-eyed.  Her  reflections  are 
thus  to  be  interpreted,  it  seems  to  me.  She  says,  "The 
vices  of  the  world's  nobler  half  in  this  day  are  feminine." 
We  have  to  guard  against  "half-conceptions  of  wisdom,  hys- 
terical goodness,  an  impatient  charity" — against  the  element- 
ary state  of  the  altruistic  virtues,  distinguishable  as  the  sick- 
ness and  writhings  of  our  egoism  to  cast  its  first  slough. 
Idea  is  there.  The  funny  part  of  it  is  our  finding  it  in  books 
of  fiction  composed  for  payment.  Manifestly  this  lady  did 
not  "chameleon"  her  pen  from  the  color  of  her  audience; 
she  was  not  of  the  uniformed  rank  and  file  marching  to 
drum  and  fife  as  gallant  interpreters  of  popular  appetite, 
and  going  or  gone  to  soundlessness  and  the  icy  s^^^des.    She 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  15 

worked  with  her  head  for  payment,  she  admitted;  yet  in 
translucent  conscience.  She  notes  in  one  place  how  "A 
brown  cone  drops  from  the  fir-tree  before  my  window,  a 
nibbled  green  from  the  squirrel.  Service  is  our  destiny  in 
life  or  in  death.  Then  let  it  be  my  choice  living  to  serve 
the  living,  and  be  fretted  uncomplainingly.  If  I  can  assure 
myself  of  doing  service  I  have  my  home  within.^' 

Touches  inward  are  not  absent:  "To  have  the  sense  of  the 
eternal  in  life  is  a  short  flight  for  the  soul.  To  have  had  it 
is  the  soul's  vitality." 

And  also:  "Palliation  of  a  sin  is  the  hunted  creature's 
refuge  and  final  temptation.  Our  battle  is  ever  between 
spirit  and  flesh.  Spirit  must  brand  the  flesh  that  it  may 
live." 

You  are  entreated  to  repress  alarm.  She  was  by  prefer- 
ence light-handed;  and  her  saying  of  oratory,  that  "It  is 
always  the  more  impressive  for  the  spice  of  temper  which 
renders  it  untrustworthy,"  is  light  enough. 

On  politics  she  is  rhetorical  and  swings;  she  wrote  to  spur 
a  junior  politician:  "It  is  the  first  business  of  men,  the  school 
to  mediocrity,  to  the  covetously  ambitious  a  sty,  to  the  dullard 
his  amphitheatre,  arms  of  Titans  to  the  desperately  enter- 
prising, Olympus  to  the  genius." 

What  a  woman  thinks  of  women  is  the  test  of  her  nature. 
She  saw  their  existing  posture  clearly,  yet  believed,  as  men 
disincline  to  do,  that  they  grow.  She  says,  that  "In  their 
judgments  upon  women  men  are  females,  voices  of  the  pres- 
ent (sexual)  dilemma."  They  desire  to  have  "a  still  woman, 
who  can  make  a  constant  society  of  her  pins  and  needles." 
They  create  by  stoppage  a  volcano,  and  are  amazed  at  its 
eruptiveness.  "We  live  alone,  and  do  not  much  feel  it  till 
we  are  visited."  Love  is  presumably  the  visitor.  Of  the 
greater  loneliness  of  women  she  says:  "It  is  due  to  the  pre- 
scribed circumscription  of  their  minds,  of  which  they  become 
aware  in  agitation.  Were  the  walls  about  them  beaten  down 
they  would  understand  that  soHtariness  is  a  common  human 
fate  and  the  one  chance  of  growth,  like  space  for  timber." 
As  to  the  sensations  of  women  after  the  beating  down  of 
the  walls,  she  owns  that  the  multitude  of  the  timorous  would 
yearn  in  shivering  affright  for  the  old  prison-nest,  according 
to  the  sage  prognostic  of  men;    but  the  flying  of  a  valiant 


16  DIANA  OF  THE  CROSSWAYS. 

few  would  form  a  vanguard.  And  we  are  informed  that  the 
beginning  of  a  motive  life  with  women  must  be  in  the  head, 
equally  with  men  (by  no  means  a  truism  when  she  wrote). 
Also  that  "men  do  not  so  much  fear  to  lose  the  hearts  of 
thoughtful  women  as  their  strict  attention  to  their  graces." 
The  present  market  is  what  men  are  for  preserving:  an  ob- 
servation of  still  reverberating  force.  Generally  in  her  char- 
acter of  the  feminine  combatant  there  is  a  turn  of  phrase, 
like  a  dimple  near  the  lips,  showing  her  knowledge  that  she 
was  uttering  but  a  tar^-  measure  of  the  truth.  She  had  always 
too  much  lambent  humor  to  be  the  dupe  of  the  passion  where- 
with, as  she  says,  "we  lash  ourselves  into  the  persuasive  speech 
distinguishing  us  from  the  animals." 

The  instances  of  her  drollery  are  rather  hinted  by  the 
Diarists  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  had  met  her  and  could 
inhale  the  atmosphere  at  a  word.  Drolleries,  humors,  re- 
puted witticisms,  are  like  odors  of  roast  meats,  past  with  the 
picking  of  the  joint.  Idea  is  the  only  vital  breath.  They 
have  it  rarely,  or  it  eludes  the  chronicler.  To  say  of  the 
great  erratic  and  forsaken  Lady  A  *  *  *  *  ,  after  she  had 
accepted  the  consolations  of  Bacchus,  that  her  name  was 
properly  signified  in  asterisks,  "as  she  was  now  nightly  an 
Ariadne  in  heaven  through  her  God,"  sounds  to  us  a  round- 
about, with  wit  somewhere  and  fun  nowhere.  Standing  at 
the  roast  we  might  have  thought  differently.  Perry  Wilkin- 
son is  not  happier  in  citing  her  reply  to  his  compliment  on 
the  reviewers'  unanimous  eulogy  of  her  humor  and  pathos: 
the  "merry  clown  and  poor  pantaloon  demanded  of  us  in 
every  work  of  fiction,"  she  says,  lamenting  the  writer's  com- 
pulsion to  go  on  producing  them  for  applause  until  it  is 
extremest  age  that  knocks  their  knees.  We  are  informed  by 
Lady  Pennon  of  "the  most  amusing  description  of  the  first 
impressions  of  a  pretty  English  simpleton  in  Paris;"  and 
here  is  an  opportunity  for  ludicrous  contrast  of  the  French 
and  English  styles  of  pushing  flatteries — "piping  to  the 
charmed  animal,"  as  Mrs.  Warwick  terms  it  in  another  place: 
but  Lady  Pennon  was  acquainted  with  the  silly  woman  of  the 
piece,  and  found  her  amusement  in  the  "wonderful  truth" 
of  that  representation. 

Diarists  of  amusing  passages  are  under  an  obligation  to 
paint  us  a  realistic  revival  of  the  time,  or  we  miss  the  relish. 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  17 

The  odor  of  the  roast,  and,  more,  a  slice  of  it,  is  required, 
unless  the  humorous  thing  be  pretematurally  spirited  to  walk 
the  earth  as  one  immortal  among  a  number  less  numerous 
than  the  mythic  Gods.  "He  gives  good  dinners,"  a  candid 
old  critic  said,  when  asked  how  it  was  that  he  could  praise 
a  certain  poet.  In  an  island  of  chills  and  fogs,  coelum  crebis 
imbriius  ac  nehulis  foedum,  the  comic  and  other  perceptions 
are  dependent  on  the  stirring  of  the  gastric  juices.  And  such 
a  revival  by  any  of  us  would  be  impolitic,  were  it  a  possible 
attempt,  before  our  systems  shall  have  been  fortified  by 
philosophy.  Then  may  it  be  allowed  to  the  Diarist  simply 
to  relate,  and  we  can  copy  from  him. 

Then,  ah!  then,  moreover,  will  the  novelist's  Art,  now 
neither  blushless  infant  nor  executive  man,  have  attained  its 
majority.  We  can  then  be  veraciously  historical,  honestly 
transcriptive.  Eose-pink  and  dirty  drab  will  alike  have  passed 
away.  Philosophy  is  the  foe  of  both,  and  their  silly  cancel- 
ling contest,  perpetually  renewed  in  a  shuffle  of  extremes, 
as  it  always  is  where  a  phantasm  falseness  reigns,  will  no 
longer  baffle  the  contemplation  of  natural  flesh,  smother  no 
longer  the  soul  issuing  out  of  our  incessant  strife.  Philosophy 
bids  us  to  see  that  we  are  not  so  pretty  as  rose-pink,  not  so 
repulsive  as  dirty  drab;  and  that,  instead  of  everlastingly 
shifting  those  barren  aspects,  the  sight  of  ourselves  is  whole- 
some, bearable,  fructifjdng,  finally  a  delight.  Do  but  perceive 
that  we  are  coming  to  philosophy,  the  stride  toward  it  will 
be  a  giant's — a  century  a  day.  And  imagine  the  celestial 
refreshment  of  having  a  pure  decency  in  the  place  of  sham; 
real  flesh;  a  soul  born  active,  wind-beaten,  but  ascending. 
Honorable  will  fiction  then  appear;  honorable,  a  fount  of  life, 
an  aid  to  life,  quick  with  our  blood.  Why,  when  you  behold  it 
you  love  it — and  you  will  not  encourage  it? — or  only  when 
presented  by  dead  hands?  Worse  than  that  alternative  dirty 
drab,  your  recurring  rose-pink  is  rebuked  by  hideous  revela- 
tions of  the  filthy  foul;  for  nature  will  force  her  way,  and  if 
you  try  to  stifle  her  by  drowning  she  comes  up,  not  the  fairest 
part  of  her  uppermost!  Peruse  your  Realists — really  your 
castigators  for  not  having  yet  embraced  philosophy.  As  she 
grows  in  the  flesh  when  discreetly  tended,  nature  is  unim- 
peachable, flower-like,  yet  not  too  decoratively  a  flower;  you 
must  have  her  with  the  stem,  the  thorns,  the  roots,  and  the 
fat  bedding  of  roses.    In  this  fashion  she  grew,  says  historical 


18  DIANA  OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

fiction;    thus  does  she  flourish  now,  would  say  the  modern 
transcript,  reading  the  inner  as  well  as  exhibiting  the  outer. 
And  how  may  you  know  that  you  have  reached  to  philo- 
\  sophy?    You  touch  her  skirts  when  you  share  her  hatred  of 
I  the  sham  decent,  her  derision  of  sentimentalism.     You  are 
i   one  with  her  when — ^but  I  would  not  have  you  a  thousand 
/    years  older!     Get  to  her,  if  in  no  other  way,  by  the  senti- 
mental route: — that  very  winding  path,  which  again  and 
again  brings  you  round  to  the  point  of  original  impetus, 
where   you  have  to   be  unwound  for  another  whirl;    your 
point  of  original  impetus  being  the  grossly  material,  not  at 
all  the  spiritual.    It  is  most  true  that  sentimentalism  springs 
from  the  former,  merely  and  badly  aping  the  latter; — ^fine 
flower,  or  pinnacle  flame-spire,  of  sensualism  that  it  is,  could 
it  do  other? — and  accompanying  the  former  it  traverses  tracts 
of  desert,  here  and  there  couching  in  a  garden,  catching 
with  one  hand  at  fruits,  with  another  at  colors;   imagining 
a  secret  ahead,  and  goaded  by  an  appetite  sustained  by  sheer 
gratifications.     Fiddle  in  harmonics  as  it  may  it  will  have 
these  gratifications  at  all  costs.     Should  none  be  discover- 
able, at  once  you  are  at  the  Cave  of  Despair,  beneath  the 
funereal  orb  of  Glaucoma,  in  the  thick  midst  of  poniarded, 
slit-throat,  rope-dependent  figures,  placarded  across  the  bosom 
Disillusioned,  Infidel,  Agnostic,  Miserrimus.    That  is  the  sen- 
timental route  to  advancement.     Spirituality  does  not  light 
it;  evanescent  dreams  are  its  oil-lamps,  often  with  wick  askant 
^  in  the  socket. 

A  thousand  years!  You  may  count  full  many  a  thousand 
by  this  route  before  you  are  one  with  divine  philosophy. 
Whereas  a  single  flight  of  brains  will  reach  and  embrace  her; 
give  you  the  savor  of  Truth,  the  right  use  of  the  senses, 
Eeality's  infinite  sweetness;  for  these  things  are  in  phil- 
osophy; and  the  fiction  which  is  the  summary  of  actual  Life, 
the  within  and  without  of  us,  is,  prose  or  verse,  plodding  or 
soaring,  philosophy's  elect  handmaiden.  To  such  an  end  let 
us  bend  our  aim  to  work,  knowing  that  every  form  of  labor, 
even  this  flimsiest,  as  you  esteem  it,  should  minister  to 
growth.  If  in  any  branch  of  us  we  fail  in  growth,  there  is, 
you  are  aware,  an  unfailing  aboriginal  democratic  old  monster 
that  waits  to  pull  us  down;  certainly  the  branch,  possibly  the 
tree;  and  for  the  welfare  of  Life  we  fall.  You  are  acutely 
conscious  of  yonder  old  monster  when  he  is  mouthing  at  you 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  19 

in  polities.  Be  wary  of  him  in  the  heart;  especially  be  wary 
of  the  disrelish  of  brainstuff.  You  must  feed  on  something. 
Matter  that  is  not  nourishing  to  brains  can  help  to  constitute 
nothing  but  the  bodies  which  are  pitched  on  rubbish-heaps. 
Brainstuff  is  not  lean  stuff;  the  brainstuff  of  fiction  is  internal 
history,  and  to  suppose  it  dull  is  the  profoundest  of  errors; 
how  deep  you  will  understand  when  I  tell  you  that  it  is 
the  very  football  of  the  holiday-afternoon  imps  below.  They 
kick  it  for  pastime;  they  are  inteUigences  perverted.  The 
comic  of  it,  the  adventurous,  the  tragic,  they  make  devilish, 
to  kindle  their  Ogygian  hilarity.  But  sharply  comic,  adven- 
turous, instructively  tragic,  it  is  in  the  interwinding  with 
human  affairs,  to  give  a  flavor  of  the  modern  day  reviving 
that  of  our  Poet,  between  whom  and  us  yawn  Time's  most 
hollow  jaws.  Surely  we  owe  a  little  to  Time,  to  cheer  his 
progress;  a  little  to  posterity,  and  to  our  country.  Dozens 
of  writers  will  be  in  at  yonder  yawning  breach  if  only  perusers 
will  rally  to  the  philosophic  standard.  They  are  sick  of  the 
woodeny  puppetry  they  dispense,  as  on  a  race-course,  to  the 
roaring  frivolous.  Well,  if  not  dozens,  half-dozens;  gallant 
pens  are  alive;  one  can  speak  of  them  in  the  plural.  I  ven- 
ture to  say  that  they  would  be  satisfied  with  a  dozen  for 
audience,  for  a  commencement.  They  would  perish  of  inani- 
tion, unfed,  unapplauded,  amenable  to  the  laws  perchance  for 
an  assault  on  their  last  remaining  pair  of  ears,  or  heels,  to  hold 
them  fast.  But  the  example  is  the  thing;  sacrifices  must  be 
expected.  The  example  might,  one  hopes,  create  a  taste.  A 
great  modern  writer,  of  clearest  eye  and  head,  now  departed, 
capable  in  activity  of  presenting  thoughtful  women,  thinking 
men,  groaned  over  his  puppetry — that  he  dared  not  animate 
them,  flesh  though  they  were,  with  the  fires  of  positive  brain- 
stuff.  He  could  have  done  it,  and  he  is  of  the  departed! 
Had  he  dared  he  would  (for  he  was  Titan  enough)  have  raised 
the  Art  in  dignity  on  a  level  with  History,  to  an  interest  sur- 
passing the  narrative  of  public  deeds  as  vividly  as  man's 
heart  and  brain  in  their  union  excel  his  plain  lines  of  action 
to  eruption.  The  everlasting  pantomime,  suggested  by  Mrs. 
"Warwick  in  her  exclamation  to  Perry  Wilkinson,  is  derided, 
not  unrighteously,  by  our  graver  seniors.  They  name  this 
Art  the  pasture  of  idiots,  a  method  for  idiotizing  the  entire 
population  which  has  taken  to  reading;  and  which  soon  dis- 
covers that  it  can  write  likewise,  that  sort  of  stuff  at  least. 


..--^0  DIAiNA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

\  The  forecast  may  be  hazarded,  that,  if  we  do  not  speedily 
\  embrace  philosophy  in  fiction,  the  Art  is  doomed  to  extinc- 
tion under  the  shining  multitude  of  its  professors.  They 
are  fast  capping  the  candle.  Instead,  therefore,  of  objurga- 
ting the  timid  intrusions  of  philosophy,  invoke  her  presence, 
I  pray  you.  History  without  her  is  the  skeleton-map  of 
events:  Fiction  a  picture  of  figures  modeled  on  no  skeleton - 
anatomy.  But  each,  with  philosophy  in  aid,  blooms,  and  is 
humanly  shapely.  To  demand  of  us  truth  to  nature,  exclud- 
ing philosophy,  is  really  to  bid  a  pumpkin  caper.  As  much 
as  legs  are  wanted  for  the  dance,  philosophy  is  required  to 
make  our  human  nature  credible  and  acceptable.  Fiction 
implores  you  to  heave  a  bigger  breast  and  take  her  in  with 
this  heavenly  preservative  helpmate,  her  inspiration  and  her 
essence.  There  is  a  peep-show  and  a  Punch's  at  the  corner 
of  every  street,  one  magnifying  the  lace-work  of  life,  another 
the  ventral  tumulus,  and  it  is  these  for  you,  or  dry  bones,  if 
you  do  not  open  to  philosophy;  so  that  we  may  follow  the 
Diarist,  transcribe  from  knowledge,  show  you  flesh-facts, 
truer  than  the  bone — fragrant  with  truth!  and  paint  for  you 
the  woman  and  the  man,  infuse  blood  to  the  hero,  blood, 
brains  to  the  veiled  virginal  doll,  the  heroine.  You  have  to 
teach  your  imagination  of  the  feminine  image  you  have  set 
up  to  bend  your  civilized  knees  to,  that  it  must  temper  its 
fastidiousness,  shun  the  grossness  of  the  over-dainty.  Or  to 
speak  in  the  philosophic  tongue,  you  must  turn  on  yourself, 
resolutely  track  and  seize  that  burrower,  and  scrub  and 
cleanse  him;  by  which  process,  during  the  course  of  it,  you 
will  arrive  at  the  conception  of  the  right  heroical  woman  for 
you  to  worship:  and,  if  you  prove  to  be  of  some  spiritual 
stature,  you  may  reach  to  an  ideal  of  the  heroical  feminine 
type  for  the  worship  of  mankind,  an  image  as  yet  in  poetic 
outline  only,  on  our  upper  skies. 

"So  well  do  we  know  ourselves,  that  we  one  and  all  deter- 
mine to  know  a  purer,"  says  the  heroine  of  my  columns. 
Philosophy  in  fiction  tells,  among  various  other  matters,  of 
the  perils  of  this  intimate  acquaintance  with  a  flattering 
familiar  in  the  "purer" — a  person  who  more  than  ceases  to 
be  of  use  to  us  after  his  ideal  shall  have  led  up  men  from 
their  flint  and  arrowhead  caverns  to  intereommunicative  day- 
light. For,  when  the  fictitious  creature  has  performed  that 
service  of  helping  to  civilize  the  world,  it  becomes  the  most 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWiAYS.  (21 

dangerous  of  delusions,  causing  first  the  individual ,  to  de- 
spise the  mass,  and  then  to  join  the  mass  in  crushing  the 
individual.  Wherewith  let  us  to  our  story,  the  froth  being 
out  of  the  bottle. 


CHAPTEE  II. 
AN  IRISH  BALL. 

In  the  Assembly  Eooms  of  the  capital  city  of  the  Sister 
Island  there  was  a  public  ball,  to  celebrate  the  return  to 
Erin  of  a  British  hero  of  Irish  blood,  after  his  victorious 
Indian  campaign;  a  mighty  struggle  splendidly  ended;  and 
truly  could  it  be  said  that  all  Erin  danced  to  meet  him;  but 
this  was  the  pick  of  the  dancing,  past  dispute  the  pick  of 
the  supping.  Outside  those  halls  the  supping  was  done  in 
Lazarus  fashion,  mainly  through  an  excessive  straining  of 
the  organs  of  hearing  and  vision,  which  imparted  the  readi- 
ness for  more,  declared  by  physicians  to  be  the  state  inducing 
to  sound  digestion.  Some  one  spied  the  figure  of  the  hero  at 
a  window  and  was  fed;  some  only  to  hear  the  tale  chewed  the 
cud  of  it;  some  told  of  having  seen  him  mount  the  steps; 
and  sure  it  was  that  at  an  hour  of  the  night,  no  matter  when, 
and  never  mind  a  drop  or  two  of  cloud,  he  would  come  down 
them  again,  and  have  an  Irish  cheer  to  freshen  his  pillow. 
For  'tis  Ireland  gives  England  her  soldiers,  her  generals  too. 
Further  away,  over  field  and  bogland,  the  whiskies  did  their 
excellent  ancient  service  of  watering  the  dry  and  drying  the 
damp,  to  the  toast  of  "Lord  Larrian,  God  bless  him;  he's  an 
honor  to  the  old  country!"  and  a  bit  of  a  sigh  to  follow, 
hints  of  a  story,  and  loud  laughter,  a  drink,  a  deeper  sigh, 
settling  into  conversation  upon  the  brave  Lord  Larrian's 
deeds,  and  an  Irish  regiment  he  favored — had  no  taste  for 
the  enemy  without  the  backing  of  his  ''boys."  Not  he.  Why, 
he'd  never  march  to  battle  and  they  not  handy;  because 
when  he  struck  he  struck  hard,  he  said.  And  he  has  a  wound 
on  the  right  hip  and  two  fingers  off  his  left  hand:  has  bled 
for  England,  to  show  her  what  Irishmen  are  when  they're 
well  treated. 

The  fine  old  warrior  standing  at  the  upper  end  of  the  long 
saloon,  tall,  straight,  gray-haired,  martial  in  his  aspect  and 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

decorations,  was  worthy  to  be  the  flag-pole  for  enthusiasm. 
His  large  gray  eyes  lightened  from  time  to  time  as  he  ranged 
them  over  the  floating  couples,  and  dropped  a  word  of  inquiry 
to  his  aide,  Captain  Sir  Lukin  Dunstane,  a  good  model  of  a 
cavalry  officer,  though  somewhat  a  giant,  equally  happy 
with  his  chief  in  passing  the  troops  of  animated  ladies  under 
review.  He  named  as  many  as  were  known  to  him.  Review- 
ing women  exquisitely  attired  for  inspection,  all  variously 
and  charmingly  smiling,  is  a  relief  after  the  monotonous 
regiments  of  men.  Ireland  had  done  her  best  to  present  the 
hero  of  her  blood  an  agreeable  change:  and  he  too  expressed 
a  patriotic  satisfaction  on  hearing  that  the  faces  most  admired 
by  him  were  of  the  native  isle.  He  looked  upon  one  that 
came  whirling  up  to  him  on  a  young  officer's  arm  and  swept 
off  into  the  crowd  of  tops,  for  a  considerable  while  before  he 
put  his  customary  question.  She  was  returning  on  the  spin 
when  he  said: 

"AYho  is  she?" 

Sir  Lukin  did  not  know.  "She's  a  new  bird;  she  nodded 
to  my  wife;  I'll  ask." 

He  maneuvered  a  few  steps  cleverly  to  where  his  wife  re- 
posed. The  information  he  gathered  for  the  behoof  of  his 
chief  was,  that  the  handsome  creature  answered  to  the  name 
of  Miss  Merion;  Irish;  aged  somewhere  between  eighteen 
and  nineteen;  a  dear  friend  of  his  wife's,  and  he  ought  to 
have  remembered  her:  but  she  was  a  child  when  he  saw  her 
last. 

"Dan  Merion  died,  I  remember,  about  the  day  of  my  sail- 
ing for  India,"  said  the  General.    "She  may  be  his  daughter." 

The  bright  cynosure  rounded  up  to  him  in  the  web  of  the 
waltz,  with  her  dark  eyes  for  Lady  Dunstane,  and  vanished 
again  among  the  twisting  columns. 

He  made  his  way,  handsomely  bumped  by  an  apologetic 
pair,  to  Lady  Dunstane,  beside  whom  a  seat  was  vacated  for 
him;  and  he  trusted  she  had  not  over-fatigued  herself. 

"Confess,"  she  replied;  "you  are  perishing  to  know  more 
than  Lukin  has  been  able  to  tell  you.  Let  me  hear  that  you 
admire  her:  it  pleases  me;  and  you  shall  hear  what  will 
please  you  as  much,  I  promise  you.  General." 

"I  do.    Who  wouldn't?"  said  he,  frankly. 

'^She  crossed  the  Channel  expressly  to  dance  here  to-night 
at  the  public  ball  in  honor  of  you." 


DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  2^ 

"Where  she  appears,  the  first  person  falls  to  second  rank, 
and  accepts  it  humbly." 

"That  is  grandly  spoken." 

"She  makes  everything  in  the  room  dust  round  a  blazing 
jewel." 

"She  makes  a  poet  of  a  soldier.  Well,  that  you  may  un- 
derstand how  pleased  I  am,  she  is  my  dearest  friend,  though 
she  is  younger  than  I,  as  may  be  seen;  she  is  the  only  friend 
I  have.  I  nursed  her  when  she  was  an  infant;  my  father  and 
Mr.  Dan  Merion  were  chums.  We  were  parted  by  my  mar- 
riage and  the  voyage  to  India.  We  have  not  yet  exchanged 
a  syllable:  she  was  snapped  up,  of  course,  the  moment  she 
entered  the  room.  I  knew  she  would  be  a  taking  girl;  how 
lovely,  I  did  not  guess.  You  are  right,  she  extinguishes  the 
others.  She  used  to  be  the  sprightliest  of  living  creatures, 
and  to  judge  by  her  letters  that  has  not  faded.  She's  in  the 
market.  General." 

Lord  Larrian  nodded  to  everything  he  heard,  concluding 
with  a  mock  doleful  shake  of  the  head.  *^My  poorest  sub- 
altern!" he  sighed,  in  the  theatrical  but  cordially  melancholy 
style  of  green  age  viewing  Cytherea's  market. 

His  poorest  subaltern  was  richer  than  he  in  the  where- 
withal to  bid  for  such  prizes. 

"What  is  her  name  in  addition  to  Merion?" 

"Diana  Antonia  Merion.    Tony  to  me,  Diana  to  the  world." 

"She  lives  over  there?" 

"In  England,  or  anywhere;  wherever  she  is  taken  in.  She 
will  live,  I  hope,  chiefly  with  me." 

"And  honest  Irish?" 

"Oh,  she's  Irish." 

"Ah!"    The  General  was  Irish  to  the  heels  that  night. 

Before  further  could  be  said  the  fair  object  of  the  dialogue 
came  darting  on  a  trip  of  little  runs,  both  hands  out,  all  her 
face  one  tender  sparkle  of  a  smile;  and  her  cry  proved  the 
quality  of  her  blood:    "Emmy!   Emmy!  my  heart!" 

"My  dear  Tony!  I  should  not  have  come  but  for  the  hope 
of  seeing  you  here." 

Lord  Larrian  rose  and  received  a  hurried  acknowledgment 
of  his  courtesy  from  the  usurper  of  his  place. 

"Emmy;  we  might  kiss  and  hug;  we're  in  Ireland.  I 
burn  to!  *  But  you're  not  still  ill,  dear?    Say  no!    That  Indian 


24  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

fever  must  have  gone.  You  do, look  a  dash  pale,  my  own; 
you're  tired/' 

"One  dance  has  tired  me.    Why  were  you  so  late?" 

"To  give  the  others  a  chance?  To  produce  a  greater  im- 
pression by  suspense?  No  and  no.  I  wrote  you  I  was  with 
the  Pettigrews.  We  caught  the  coach,  we  caught  the  boat, 
we  were  only  two  hours  late  for  the  ball;  so  we  did  wonders. 
And  good  Mrs.  Pettigrew  is  pinning  somewhere  to  complete 
her  adornment.  I  was  in  the  crush,  spying  for  Emmy,  when 
Mr.  Mayor  informed  me  it  was  the  duty  of  every  Irishwoman 
to  dance  her  toes  off,  if  she'd  be  known  for  what  she  is. 
And  twirl!  a  man  had  me  by  the  waist,  and  I  dying  to  find 
you." 

"Who  was  the  man?" 

"Not  to  save  these  limbs  from  the  lighted  stake  could  I 
tell  you." 

"You  are  to  perform  a  ceremonious  bow  to  Lord  Larrian." 

"Chatter  first!  a  little!" 

The  plea  for  chatter  was  disregarded.  It  was  visible  that 
the  hero  of  the  night  hung  listening  and  in  expectation.  He 
and  the  Beauty  were  named  to  one  another,  and  they  chatted 
through  a  quadrille.  Sir  Lukin  introduced  a  fellow  Harro- 
vian of  old  days,  Mr.  Thomas  Redworth,  to  his  wife. 

"Our  weather-prophet,  meteorologist,"  he  remarked,  to  set 
them  going:  "you  remember,  in  India,  my  pointing  to  you 
his  name  in  a  newspaper-letter  on  the  subject.  He  was  gen- 
erally safe  for  the  cricketing  days." 

Lady  Dunstane  kindly  appeared  to  call  it  to  mind,  and 
she  led  upon  the  theme — queried  at  times  by  an  abrupt  "Eh?" 
and  "I  beg  pardon,"  for  manifestly  his  gaze  and  one  of  his 
ears,  if  not  the  pair,  were  given  to  the  young  lady  discours- 
ing with  Lord  Larrian.  Beauty  is  rare;  luckily  is  it  rare,  or 
judging  from  its  effect  on  men,  and  the  very  stoutest  of  them, 
our  world  would  be  internally  a  more  distracted  planet  than 
we  see,  to  the  perversion  of  business,  courtesy,  rights  of  prop- 
erty, and  the  rest.  She  perceived  an  incipient  victim,  of  the 
hundreds  she  anticipated,  and  she  very  tolerantly  talked  on: 
"The  weather  and  women  have  some  resemblance,  they  say. 
Is  it  true  that  he  who  reads  the  one  can  read  the  other?" 

Lord  Larrian  here  burst  into  a  brave  old  laugh,  exclaim- 
ing, "Oh!  good!" 

Mr.  Eedworth  knitted  his  thick  brows.   *^  beg  pardon !    Ah! 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  25 

women!  Weather  and  women?  No;  the  one  point  more  va- 
riable in  women  makes  all  the  difference." 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  the  General  laughed  at?" 

The  honest  Englishman  entered  the  trap  with  promptitude. 
"She  said: — who  is  she,  may  I  ask  you?" 

Lady  Dunstane  mentioned  her  name. 

Daughter  of  the  famous  Dan  Merion?  The  young  lady 
merited  examination  for  her  father's  sake.  But,  when  re- 
minded of  her  laughter-moving  speech,  Mr.  Redworth  bun- 
gled it;  he  owned  he  spoilt  it,  and  candidly  stated  his  inabil- 
ity to  see  the  fun.  "She  said,  St.  George's  Channel  in  a 
gale  ought  to  be  called  St.  Patrick's — something — I  missed 
some  point.  That  quadrille  tune,  the  Pastourelle,  or  some- 
thing    .     .     .     ." 

"She  had  experience  of  the  Channel  last  night,"  Lady  Dun- 
stane pursued,  and  they  both,  while  in  seeming  converse, 
caught  snatches  from  their  neighbors,  during  a  pause  of  the 
dance. 

The  sparkling  Diana  said  to  Lord  Larrian,  "You  really  de- 
cline to  make  any  of  us  proud  women  by  dancing  to-night?" 

The  General  answered:  "I  might  do  it  on  two  stilts;  I 
can't  on  one."  He  touched  his  veteran  leg. 

"But  surely,"  said  she,  "there's  always  an  inspiration  com- 
ing to  it  from  its  partner  in  motion,  if  one  of  them  takes 
the  step." 

He  signified  a  woeful  negative.  "My  dear  young  lady, 
you  say  dark  things  to  gray  hairs!" 

She  rejoined:  "If  we  were  over  in  England,  and  you  fixed 
on  me  the  stigma  of  saying  dark  things,  I  should  never 
speak  without  being  thought  obscure." 

"It's  because  you  flash  too  brightly  for  them." 

"I  think  it  is  rather  the  reminiscence  of  the  tooth  that  once 
received  a  stone  when  it  expected  candy." 

Again  the  General  laughed;  he  looked  pleased  and  warmed. 
"Yes,  that's  their  way,  that's  their  way!"  and  he  repeated 
her  words  to  himself,  diminishing  their  importance  as  he 
stamped  them  on  his  memory,  but  so  heartily  admiring  the 
lovely  speaker  that  he  considered  her  wit  an  honor  to  the 
old  country,  and  told  her  so.  Irish  prevailed  up  to  boiling- 
point. 

Lady  Dunstane,  not  less  gratified,  glanced  up  at  Mr.  Red- 
worth,  whose  brows  bore  the  knot  of  perplexity  over  a  strong 


26  DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

stare.  He,  too,  stamped  the  words  on  his  memory,  to  see 
subsequently  whether  they  had  a  vestige  of  meaning.  Ter- 
rifically precocious  he  thought  her.  Lady  Dunstane,  in  her 
quick  sympathy  with  her  friend,  read  the  adverse  mind  in  his 
face.  And  her  reading  of  the  mind  was  right,  wrong  alto- 
gether her  deduction  of  the  corresponding  sentiment. 

Music  was  resumed  to  confuse  the  hearing  of  the  eaves- 
droppers. 

They  beheld  a  quaint  spectacle:  a  gentleman,  obviously  an 
Englishman,  approached,  with  the  evident  intention  of  re- 
minding the  Beauty  of  the  night  of  her  engagement  to  him, 
and  claiming  her,  as  it  were,  in  the  lion's  jaws.  He  advanced 
a  foot,  withdrew  it,  advanced,  withdrew;  eager  for  his  prize, 
not  over  enterprising;  in  awe  of  the  illustrious  General  she 
entertained — presumably  quite  unaware  of  the  pretender's 
presence;  whereupon  a  voice  was  heard:  "Oh!  if  it  was  minu- 
etting  you  meant  before  the  lady,  I'd  never  have  disputed 
your  right  to  perform,  sir."  For  it  seemed  that  there  were  two 
claimants  in  the  field,  an  Irishman  and  an  Englishman;  and 
the  former,  having  a  livelier  sense  of  the  situation,  hung  aloof 
in  waiting  for  her  eye;  the  latter  directed  himself  to  strike 
bluntly  at  his  prey;  and  he  continued  minuetting,  now  rap- 
idly blinking,  flushed,  angry,  conscious  of  awkwardness  and  a 
tangle,  incapable  of  extrication.  He  began  to  blink  horribly 
under  the  raillery  of  his  rival.  The  General  observed  him,  but 
as  an  object  remote  and  minute,  a  fly  or  gnat.  The  face  of 
the  brilliant  Diana  was  entirely  devoted  to  him  she  amused. 

Lady  Dunstane  had  the  faint  lines  of  a  decorous  laugh  on 
her  lips  as  she  said:  "How  odd  it  is  that  our  men  show  to 
such  disadvantage  in  a  ball-room.  I  have  seen  them  in 
danger,  and  there  they  shine  first  of  any,  and  one  is  proud 
of  them.  They  should  always  be  facing  the  elements  or  in 
action."  She  glanced  at  the  minuet,  which  had  become  a  pet- 
rified figure,  still  palpitating,  bent  forward,  an  interrogative 
reminder. 

Mr.  Eedworth  reserved  his  assent  to  the  proclamation  of 
any  English  disadvantage.  A  whiff  of  Celtic  hostility  in  the 
atmosphere  put  him  on  his  mettle.  "Wherever  the  man  is 
tried,"  he  said. 

"My  lady!"  the  Irish  gentleman  bowed  to  Lady  Dunstane. 
"I  had  the  honor  .  .  ,  Sullivan  Smith  ...  at  the 
Castle    .     .     ," 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  27 

She  responded  to  the  salute,  and  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  pro- 
ceeded to  tell  her,  half  in  speech,  half  in  dots  most  luminous, 
of  a  civil  contention  between  the  English  gentleman  and  him- 
self as  to  the  possession  of  the  loveliest  of  partners  for  this  par- 
ticular ensuing  dance,  and  that  they  had  simultaneously  made 
a  rush  from  the  Lower  Courts,  namely,  their  cards,  to  the 
Upper,  being  the  lady;  and  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  partly  founded 
his  preferable  claim  on  her  Irish  descent,  and  on  his  ac- 
quaintance with  her  eminent  defunct  father — one  of  the  ever- 
radiating  stars  of  his  quenchless  country. 

Lady  Dunstane  sympathized  with  him  for  his  not  intrud- 
ing his  claim  when  the  young  lady  stood  pre-engaged,  as  well 
as  in  humorous  appreciation  of  his  imaginative  logic. 

"There  will  be  dancing  enough  after  supper,"  she  said. 

"If  I  could  score  one  dance  with  her  I'd  go  home  supper- 
less  and  feasted,''  said  he.  "And  that's  not  saying  much  among 
the  hordes  of  hungry  troopers  tip-toe  for  the  signal  to  the 
buffet.  See,  my  lady,  the  gentleman,  as  we  call  him;  there 
he  is  working  his  gamut  perpetually  up  to  da  capo.  Oh! 
but  it's  a  sheep  trying  to  be  wolf;  lie's  sheep-eyed  and  he's 
wolf-fanged,  pathetic  and  larcenous!  Oh,  now!  who'd  believe 
it! — the  man  has  dared  ...  I'd  as  soon  think  of  com- 
mitting sacrilege  in  a  cathedral!" 

The  man  was  actually,  to  quote  his  indignant  rival,  "breach- 
ing the  fortress,"  and  pointing  out  to  Diana  Merion  "her  name 
on  his  dirty  scrap  of  paper":  a  shocking  sight  when  the  lady's 
recollection  was  the  sole  point  to  be  aimed  at,  and  the  only 
umpire.  "As  if  all  of  us  couldn't  have  written  that,  and 
hadn't  done  it!"  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  groaned  disgusted.  He 
hated  bad  manners,  particularly  in  cases  involving  ladies;  and 
the  bad  manners  of  a  Saxon  fired  his  antagonism  to  the  race; 
individual  members  of  which  he  boasted  of  forgiving  and  em- 
bracing, honoring.  So  the  man  blackened  the  race  for  him, 
and  the  race  was  excused  in  the  man.  But  his  hatred  of  bad 
manners  was  vehement,  and  would  have  extended  to  a  fellow- 
countryman.  His  own  were  of  the  antecedent  century,  there- 
fore venerable. 

Diana  turned  from  her  pursuer  with  a  comic  woeful  lifting 
of  the  brows  at  her  friend.  Lady  Dunstane  motioned  her  fan, 
and  Diana  came,  bending  head. 

"Are  you  bound  in  honor?" 

"I  don't  think  I  am.    And  I  do  want  to  go  on  talking  with 


28  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

the  General.  He  is  so  delightful  and  modest — my  dream  of  a 
true  soldier! — telling  me  of  his  last  big  battle,  bit  by  bit,  to 
my  fisliing." 

"Put  off  this  person  for  a  square  dance  down  the  list,  and 
take  out  Mr.  Eedworth — Miss  Diana  Merion,  Mr.  Redworth: 
he  will  bring  you  back  to  the  General,  who  must  not  totally 
absorb  you,  or  he  will  forfeit  his  popularity." 

Diana  instantly  struck  a  treaty  with  the  pertinacious  advo- 
cate of  his  claims,  to  whom,  on  his  relinquishing  her,  Mr. 
Sullivan  Smith  remarked:  "Oh!  sir,  the  law  of  it,  where  a 
lady^s  concerned!  You're  one  for  evictions,  I  should  guess, 
and  the  anti-human  process.  It's  that  letter  of  the  law  that 
stands  between  you  and  me  and  mine  and  yours.  But  you've 
got  your  conge,  and  my  blessing  on  ye!" 

"It  was  a  positive  engagement,"  said  the  enemy. 

Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  derided  him.  "And  a  pretty  partner 
you've  pickled  for  yourself  when  she  keeps  her  positive  en- 
gagement!" 

He  besought  Lady  Dunstane  to  console  him  with  a  turn. 
She  pleaded  weariness.  He  proposed  to  sit  beside  her  and 
divert  her.  She  smiled,  but  warned  him  that  she  was  Eng- 
lish in  every  vein.  He  interjected:  "Irish  men  and  English 
women!  though  it's  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse — the 
copper  pennies  where  the  gold  guineas  should  be.  So  here's 
the  gentleman  who  takes  the  oyster,  like  the  lawyer  of  the 
fable.  English  is  he?  But  we  read,  the  last  shall  be  first. 
And  English  women  and  Irish  men  make  the  finest  coupling 
in  the  universe." 

"Well,  you  must  submit  to  see  an  Irish  woman  led  out  by 
an  English  man,"  said  Lady  Dunstane,  at  the  same  time  in- 
forming the  obedient  Diana,  then  bestowing  her  hand  on  Mr. 
Redworth  to  please  her  friend,  that  he  was  a  schoolfellow  of 
her  husband's. 

"Favor  can't  help  coming  by  rotation,  except  in  very  ex- 
traordinary circumstances,  and  he  was  ahead  of  me  with  you, 
and  takes  my  due,  and  'twould  be  hard  on  me  if  I  weren't 
thoroughly  indemnified."  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  bowed.  "You 
gave  them  just  the  start  over  the  frozen  minute  for  conversa- 
tion; they  were  total  strangers,  and  he  doesn't  appear  a  bad 
sort  of  fellow  for  a  temporary  mate,  though  he's  not  perfectly 
sure  of  his  legs.  And  that  we'll  excuse  to  any  man  leading  out 
8uch  a  fresh  young  beauty  of  a  Bright  Eyes — like  the  stars  of 


DIANA   OF   THE   CR09SWAYS.  29 

a  winter's  night  in  the  frosty  season  over  Columkill,  or  where 
you  will,  so  that^s  in  Ireland,  to  be  sure  of  the  likeness  to 
her/' 

"Her  mother  was  half  English." 

"Of  course  she  was.  And  what  was  my  observation  about 
the  coupling?  Dan  Merion  would  make  her  Irish  all  over. 
And  she  has  a  vein  of  Spanish  blood  in  her;  for  he  had. 
And  she's  got  the  color — but  you  spoke  of  their  coupling — 
or  I  did.  Oh!  a  man  can  hold  his  own  with  an  English  roly- 
poly  mate;  he's  not  stifled.  But  a  woman  hasn't  his  power  of 
resistance  to  dead  weight.  She's  volatile,  she's  frivolous,  a 
rattler  and  gabbler — haven't  I  heard  what  they  say  of  Irish 
girls  over  there?  She  marries,  and  it's  the  end  of  her  spark- 
ling. She  must  choose  at  home  for  a  perfect  harmonious  part- 
ner." 

Lady  Dunstane  expressed  her  opinion  that  her  couple 
danced  excellently  together. 

"It'd  be  a  bitter  thing  to  see,  if  the  fellow  couldn't  dance, 
after  leading  her  out!"  sighed  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith.  "I  heard 
of  her  over  there.  They  call  her  the  Black  Pearl,  and  the 
Irish  Lily — ^because  she's  dark.  They  rack  their  poor  brains 
to  get  the  laugh  of  us." 

"And  I  listen  to  you,"  said  Lady  Dunstane. 

"Ah!  if  all  England — half!  a  quarter,  the  smallest  piece 
of  the  land  were  like  you,  my  lady,  I'd  be  loyal  to  the  finger- 
nails.   Now,  is  she  engaged? — when  I  get  a  word  with  her?" 

"She  is  nineteen,  or  nearly,  and  she  ought  to  have  five  good 
years  of  freedom,  I  think." 

"And  five  good  years  of  serfdom  I'd  serve  to  win  her!" 

A  look  at  him  under  the  eyelids  assured  Lady  Dunstane 
that  there  would  be  small  chance  for  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith, 
after  a  life  of  bondage,  if  she  knew  her  Diana,  in  spite  of  his 
tongue,  his  tact,  his  lively  features  and  breadth  of  shoulders. 

Up  he  sprang.  Diana  was  on  Mr.  Eedworth's  arm.  "No 
refreshments,"  she  said;  and  "this  is  my  refreshment,"  taking 
the  seat  of  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith,  who  ejaculated, 

"I  must  go  and  have  that  gentleman's  name."  He  wanted 
a  foe. 

"You  know  you  are  ready  to  coquette  with  the  General  at 
any  moment,  Tony,"  said  her  friend. 

"Yes,  with  the  General!" 

"He  is  a  noble  old  man." 


30  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

"Superb.  And  don't  say  ^old  jnan/  With  his  uniform  and 
his  height  and  his  gray  head  he  is  like  a  glorious  October  day 
just  before  the  brown  leaves  fall/' 

Diana  hummed  a  little  of  the  air  of  Planxty  Kelly,  the 
favorite  of  her  childhood,  as  Lady  Dunstane  well  remem- 
bered, and  they  smiled  together  at  the  scenes  and  times  it 
recalled. 

"Do  you  still  write  verses,  Tony?" 

"I  could  about  him.  At  one  part  of  the  fight  he  thought 
he  would  be  beaten.  He  was  overmatched  in  artillery,  and 
it  was  a  cavalry  charge  he  thundered  on  them,  riding  across 
the  field  to  give  the  word  of  command  to  the  couple  of  regi- 
ments, riddled  to  threads,  that  gained  the  day.  That  is  life 
— when  we  dare  death  to  live!  I  wonder  at  men,  who  are 
men,  being  anything  but  soldiers!  I  told  you,  madre,  my 
own  Emmy,  I  forgave  you  for  marrying  because  it  was  a 
soldier." 

"Perhaps  a  soldier  is  to  be  the  happy  man.  But  you  have 
not  told  me  a  word  of  yourself.  What  has  been  done  with 
the  old  Crossways?" 

"The  house,  you  know,  is  mine.  And  it's  all  I  have:  ten 
acres  and  the  house,  furnished,  and  let  for  less  than  two 
hundred  a  year.  Oh!  how  I  long  to  evict  the  tenants!  They 
can't  have  my  feeling  for  the  place  where  I  was  born.  They're 
people  of  tolerably  good  connections,  middling  wealthy,  I  sup- 
pose, of  the  name  of  Warwick,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  understand, 
they  stick  there  to  be  near  the  Sussex  Downs,  for  a  nephew, 
who  likes  to  ride  on  them.  I've  a  half  engagement,  barely 
legible,  to  visit  them  on  an  indefinite  day,  and  can't  bear  the 
idea  of  strangers  masters  in  the  old  house.  I  must  be  driven 
there  for  shelter,  for  a  roof,  some  month.  And  I  could  make 
a  pilgrimage  in  rain  or  snow  just  to  dote  on  the  outside  of  it. 
That's  your  Tony." 

"She's  my  darling." 

"I  hear  myself  speak!  But  your  voice  or  mine,  madre,  it's 
one  soul.  Be  sure  I  am  giving  up  the  ghost  when  I  cease  to 
be  one  soul  with  you,  dear  and  dearest!  No  secrets,  never  a 
shadow  of  a  deception,  or  else  I  shall  feel  I  am  not  fit  to  live. 
Was  I  a  bad  correspondent  when  you  were  in  India?" 

"Pretty  well.    Copious  letters  when  you  did  write." 

"I  was  shy.  I  knew  I  should  be  writing  to  Emmy  and  an- 
other, and  only  when  I  came  to  the  flow  could  I  forget  him. 


DIANA   OF    THE   CROSSWAYS.  31 

He  is  very  finely  built:  and  I  dare  say  lie  has  a  head.  I  read  of 
his  deeds  in  India  and  quivered.  But  he  was  just  a  bit  in  the 
way.  Men  are  the  barriers  to  perfect  naturalness,  at  least, 
with  girls,  I  think.  You  wrote  to  me  in  the  same  tone  as  ever, 
and  at  first  I  had  a  struggle  to  reply.  And  I,  who  have  such 
pride  in  being  always  myself!" 

Two  staring  semi-circles  had  formed,  one  to  front  the  Hero, 
the  other  the  Beauty.  These  half-moons  imperceptibly  dis- 
solved to  replenish,  and  became  a  fixed  obstruction. 

"Yes,  they  look,"  Diana  made  answer  to  Lady  Dunstane's 
comment  on  the  curious  impertinence.  She  was  getting  used 
to  it,  and  her  friend  had  a  gratification  in  seeing  how  little 
this  affected  her  perfect  naturalness. 

"You  are  often  in  the  world — dinners,  dances?"  she  said. 

"People  are  kind." 

"Any  proposals?" 

"Nibbles." 

"Quite  heart-free?" 

"Absolutely." 

Diana's  unshadowed  bright  face  defied  all  menace  of  an 
eclipse. 

The  block  of  sturdy  gazers  began  to  melt.  The  General 
had  dispersed  his  group  of  satellites  by  a  movement  with  the 
Mayoress  on  his  arm,  construed  as  the  signal  for  procession  to 
the  supper-table. 


CHAPTEE   III. 

THE  INTERIOR  OF  MR.  REDWORTH  AND  THE  EXTERIOR 
OF  MR.  SULLIVAN  SMITH. 

"It  may  be  as  well  to  take  Mr.  Redworth's  arm;  you  will 
escape  the  crush  for  you,"  said  Lady  Dunstane  to  Diana.  "I 
don't  sup.  Yes,  go!  You  must  eat,  and  he  is  handiest  to 
conduct  you." 

Diana  thought  of  her  chaperon,  and  the  lateness  of  the 
hour.  She  murmured,  to  soften  her  conscience,  "Poor  Mrs. 
Pettigrew!" 

And  once  more  Mr.  Eedworth,  outwardly  imperturbable, 
was  in  the  maelstrom  of  a  happiness  resembling  tempest.  He 
talked,  and  knew  not  what  he  uttered.    To  give  this  matchless 


DIANA  OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

girl  the  best  to  eat  and  drink  was  liis  business,  and  he  per- 
formed it.  Oddly,  for  a  man  who  had  no  loaded  design,  mar- 
shaling the  troops  in  his  active  and  capacious  cranium,  he  fell 
upon  calculations  of  his  income,  present  and  prospective,  while 
she  sat  at  the  table  and  he  stood  behind  her.  Others  were 
wrangling  for  places,  chairs,  plates,  glasses,  game-pie,  cham- 
pagne: she  had  them;  the  lady  under  his  charge  to  a  certainty 
would  have  them;  so  far  good;  and  he  had  seven  hundred 
pounds  per  annum — seven  hundred  and  fifty,  in  a  favorable  as- 
pect, at  a  stretch.     .     .    . 

"Yes,  the  pleasantest  thing  to  me  after  working  all  day  is 
an  opera  of  Carini's,"  he  said,  in  full  accord  with  her  taste, 
*'and  Tellio  for  tenor,  certainly." 

A  fair  enough  sum  for  a  bachelor:  four  hundred  personal 
income,  and  a  prospect  of  higher  dividends  to  increase  it; 
three  hundred  odd  from  his  office,  and  no  immediate  prospects 
of  an  increase  there;  no  one  died  there,  no  elderly  martyr  for 
the  advancement  of  his  juniors  could  be  persuaded  to  die; 
they  were  too  tough  to  think  of  retiring.     Say  seven  hun- 
dred and  fifty     .     .     .     eight  hundred,  if  the  commerce  of  the 
country  fortified  the  bank  his  property  was  embarked  in;  or 
eight-fifty;  or  nine,  ten.     .     .     . 
^^     "I  could  call  him  my  poet  also,''  Mr.  Redworth  agreed  with 
/  .,    her  taste  in  poets.    "His  letters  are  among  the  best  ever  writ- 
^      ten,  or  ever  published:  the  raciest  English  I  know.    Frank, 
straight  out — capital  descriptions.     The  best  English  letter- 
writers  are  as  good  as  the  French — You  don't  think  so? — in 
/        their  way,  of  course.    I  dare  say  we  don't  sufficiently  cultivate 
""  O    the  art.    We  require  the  supple  tongue  a  closer  intercourse  of 
(    society  gives." 

Eight  or  ten  hundred.  Comfortable  enough  for  a  man  in 
chambers.  To  dream  of  entering  as  a  householder  on  that  sum, 
in  these  days,  would  be  stark  nonsense,  and  a  man  two  re- 
moves from  a  baronetcy  has  no  right  to  set  his  reckoning  on 
deaths;  if  he  does,  he  becomes  a  sort  of  meditative  assassin. 
But  what  were  the  Fates  about  when  they  planted  a  man  of 
the  ability  of  Tom  Redworth  in  a  Government  office!  Clearly 
they  intended  him  to  remain  a  bachelor  for  life.  And  they 
sent  him  over  to  Ireland  on  inspection  duty  for  a  month,  to 
have  sight  of  an  Irish  beauty.     .     .     . 

"Think  war  the  finest  subject  for  poets?"  he  exclaimed. 
"Flatly,  no;  I  don't  think  it.    I  think  exactly  the  reverse.    It 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  S3 

brings  out  the  noblest  traits  in  human  character?  I  won't 
own  that  even.  It  brings  out  some;  but  under  excitement, 
when  you  have  not  always  the  real  man.  Pray  don't  sneer 
at  domestic  life.  Well,  there  was  a  suspicion  of  disdain.  Yes, 
I  can  respect  the  hero,  military  or  civil:  with  this  distinction, 
that  the  military  hero  aims  at  personal  reward " 

"He  braves  wounds  and  death,"  interposed  Diana. 

"Whereas  the  civilian  hero " 

"Pardon  me,  let  me  deny  that  the  soldier-hero  aims  at  a  per- 
sonal reward,"  she  again  interposed. 

"He  gets  it." 

"If  he  is  not  beaten." 

"And  then  he  is  no  longer  a  hero." 

"He  is  to  me." 

She  had  a  woman's  inveterate  admiration  of  the  profession 
of  arms.  Mr.  Eedworth  endeavored  to  render  practicable  an 
opening  in  her  mind  to  reason.  He  admitted  the  grandeur 
of  the  poetry  of  Homer.  We  are  a  few  centuries  in  advance 
of  Homer.  We  do  not  slay  damsels  for  a  sacrifice  to  pro- 
pitiate celestial  wrath,  nor  do  we  revel  in  details  of  slaughter. 
He  reasoned  with  her;  he  repeated  stories  known  to  him  of 
civilian  heroes,  and  won  her  assent  to  the  heroical  title  for 
their  deeds;  but  it  was  languid,  or  not  so  bright  as  the  deeds 
deserved,  or  as  the  young  lady  could  look;  and  he  insisted  on 
the  civilian  hero,  impelled  by  some  unconscious  motive  to 
make  her  see  the  thing  he  thought,  also  the  thing  he  was — 
his  plain  mind  and  matter-of-fact  nature.  Possibly  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  that.  After  a  turn  of  fencing,  in  which  he  was 
impressed  by  the  vibration  of  her  tones  when  speaking  of 
military  heroes,  she  quitted  the  table,  saying,  "An  argument 
between  one  at  supper  and  another  handing  plates  is  rather 
unequal,  if  eloquence  is  needed.  As  Pat  said  to  the  constable 
when  his  hands  were  tied,  'You  beat  me  with  the  fists,  but  my 
spirit  is  towering  and  kicks  freely.' " 

Eight  hundred?  a  thousand  a  year,  two  thousand,  are  as 
nothing  in  the  calculation  of  a  householder  who  means  that 
the  mistress  of  the  house  shall  have  the  choicest  of  the  fruits 
and  flowers  of  the  Four  Quarters;  and  Thomas  Eedworth  had 
vowed  at  his  first  outlook  on  the  world  of  women  that  never 
should  one  of  the  sisterhood  coming  under  his  charge  com- 
plain of  not  having  them  in  profusion.  Consequently  he  was 
a  settled  bachelor.    In  the  character  of  disengaged  and  unas- 


34  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

piling  philosophical  hachelor  he  reviewed  the  revelations  of 
her  character  betrayed  by  the  beautiful  virgin  devoted  to  the 
sanguine  coat.  The  thrill  of  her  voice  in  speaking  of  soldier- 
heroes  shot  him  to  the  yonder  side  of  a  gulf.  Not  knowing 
why,  for  he  had  no  scheme,  desperate  or  other,  in  his  head, 
the  least  affrighted  of  men  was  frightened  by  her  tastes,  and 
by  her  aplomb,  her  inoffensiveness  in  freedom  of  manner  and 
self-sufhciency — sign  of  purest  breeding;  and  by  her  easy, 
peerless  vivacity,  her  proofs  of  descent  from  the  blood  of  Dan 
Merion — a  wildish  blood.  The  candor  of  the  look  of  her  eyes 
in  speaking,  her  power  of  looking  forthright  at  men,  and  look- 
ing the  thing  she  spoke,  and  the  play  of  her  voluble  lips,  the 
significant  repose  of  her  lips  in  silence,  her  weighing  of  the 
words  he  uttered  for  a  moment  before  the  prompt  apposite 
reply,  down  to  her  simple  quotation  of  Pat,  alarmed  him;  he 
did  not  ask  himself  why.  His  manly  self  was  not  intruded  on 
his  cogitations.  A  mere  eight  hundred  or  thousand  per  an- 
num had  no  place  in  that  midst.  He  beheld  her  quietly  se- 
lecting the  position  of  dignity  to  suit  her:  an  eminent  mili- 
tary man,  or  statesman,  or  wealthy  nobleman:  she  had  but  to 
choose.  A  war  would  offer  her  the  decorated  soldier  she 
wanted.  A  war!  Such  are  women  of  this  kind !  The  thought 
revolted  him,  and  pricked  his  appetite  for  supper.  He  did 
service  by  Mrs.  Pettigrew,  to  which  lady  Miss  Merion,  as  she 
said,  promoted  him,  at  the  table,  and  then  began  to  refresh 
in  person,  standing. 

"Malkin!  that's  the  fellow's  name,"  he  heard  close  at  his 
ear. 

Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  had  drained  a  champagne-glass,  bottle 
in  hand,  and  was  priming  the  successor  to  it.  He  cocked  his 
eye  at  Mr.  Eedworth's  quick  stare.  "Malkin!  And  now 
we'll  see  whether  the  interior  of  him  is  gray,  or  black,  or 
tabby,  or  tortoiseshell,  or  any  other  color  of  the  Malkin  breed." 

He  explained  to  Mr.  Eedworth  that  he  had  summoned  Mr. 
Malkin  to  answer  to  him  as  a  gentleman  for  calling  Miss  Me- 
rion a  jilt.  "The  man,  sir,  said  in  my  hearing  she  jilted  him, 
and  that's  to  call  the  lady  a  jilt.  There's  not  a  point  of  differ- 
ence, not  a  shade.  I  overheard  him.  I  happened  by  the  bless- 
ing of  Providence  to  be  by  when  he  named  her  publicly  jilt. 
And  it's  enough  that  she's  a  lady  to  have  me  for  her  champion. 
The  same  if  she  had  been  an  Esquimaux  squaw.  I'll  never  live 
to  hear  a  lady  insulted." 


DIANA   OP    THE   CROSSWAYS.  35 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  the  donkey  to  provoke  a 
duel!"  Mr.  Eedworth  burst  out  gruffly,  through  turkey  and 
stuffing. 

"And  an  Irish  lady,  the  young  Beauty  of  Erin!"  Mr. 
Sullivan  Smith  was  flowing  on.  He  became  frigid;  he  politely 
bowed:  "Two,  sir,  if  you  haven't  the  grace  to  withdraw  the 
offensive  term  before  it  cools  and  can't  be  obliterated." 

"Fiddle!  and  go  to  the  deuce!"  Mr.  Eedworth  cried. 

"Would  a  soft  slap  o'  the  cheek  persuade  you,  sir?" 

"Try  it  outside,  and  don't  bother  me  with  nonsense  of  that 
sort  at  my  supper.  If  I'm  struck,  I  strike  back.  I  keep  my 
pistols  for  bandits  and  law-breakers.  Here,"  said  Mr.  Red- 
worth,  better  inspired  as  to  the  way  of  treating  an  ultra  of 
the  isle:  "touch  glasses:  you're  a  gentleman,  and  won't  dis- 
turb good  company.    By-and-by." 

The  pleasing  prospect  of  by-and-by  renewed  in  Mr.  Sul- 
livan Smith  his  composure.  They  touched  the  foaming  glasses: 
upon  which,  in  a  friendly  manner,  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  pro- 
posed that  they  should  go  outside  as  soon  as  Mr.  Eedworth 
had  finished  supper — quite  finished  supper:  for  the  reason 
that  the  term  "donkey"  affixed  to  him  was  like  a  minster  cap 
of  schooldays,  ringing  bells  on  his  top-knot,  and  also  that  it 
stuck  in  his  gizzard. 

Mr.  Eedworth  declared  the  term  to  be  simply  hypothetical. 
"If  you  fight  you're  a  donkey  for  doing  it.  But  you  won't 
fight." 

"But  I  will  fight." 

"He  won't  fight." 

"Then  for  the  honor  of  your  country  you  must.  But  I'd 
rather  have  him  first,  for  I  haven't  drunk  with  him,  and  it 
should  be  a  case  of  necessity  to  put  a  bullet  or  a  couple  of 
inches  of  steel  through  the  man  you've  drunk  with.  And 
what's  in  your  favor,  she  danced  with  ye.  She  seemed  to 
take  to  ye,  and  the  man  she  has  the  smallest  sugar-melting 
for  is  sacred  if  he's  not  sweet  to  me.    If  he  retracts!" 

"Hypothetically,  No." 

"But  supposititiously?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then  we  grasp  hands  on  it.  It's  Malkin  or  nothing!"  said 
Mr.  Sullivan  Smith,  swinging  his  heel  moodily  to  wander  in 
search  of  the  foe.    How  one  sane  man  could  name  another  a 


36  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

donkey  for  fighting  to  clear  an  innocent  young  lady's  repu- 
tation passed  his  rational  conception. 

Sir  Lukin  hastened  to  Mr.  Eedworth  to  have  a  talk  over 
old  school  days  and  fellows. 

"I'll  tell  you  what/'  said  the  civilian,  "there  are  Irishmen 
and  Irishmen.  I've  met  cool  heads  and  long  heads  among 
them,  and  you  and  I  knew  Jack  Derry,  who  was  good  at 
most  things.  But  the  burlesque  Irishman  can't  be  caricatured. 
IsTature  strained  herself  in  a  fit  of  absurdity  to  produce  him, 
and  all  that  Art  can  do  is  to  copy." 

This  was  his  prelude  to  an  account  of  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith, 
whom,  as  a  specimen,  he  rejoiced  to  have  met. 

"There's  a  chance  of  mischief,"  said  Sir  Lukin.  "I  know 
nothing  of  the  man  he  calls  Malkin.    I'll  inquire  presently." 

He  talked  of  his  prospects  and  of  the  women.  Fair  ones, 
in  his  opinion,  besides  Miss  Merion  were  parading;  he  sketch- 
ed two  or  three  of  his  partners  with  a  broad  brush  of  epithets. 

"It  won't  do  for  Miss  Merion's  name  to  be  mixed  up  in  a 
duel,"  said  Eedworth. 

"Not  if  she's  to  make  her  fortune  in  England,"  said  Sir 
Lukin.    "It's  probably  all  smoke." 

The  remark  had  hardly  escaped  him  when  a  wreath  of 
metaphorical  smoke,  and  fire,  and  no  mean  report,  startled 
the  company  of  supping  gentlemen.  At  the  pitch  of  his 
voice  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  denounced  Mr.  Malkin  in  presence 
for  a  cur  masquerading  as  a  cat. 

"And  that  is  not  the  scoundrel's  prime  offense.  For  what 
d'ye  think?  He  trumps  up  an  engagement  to  dance  wdth  a 
beautiful  lady,  and,  because  she  can't  remember,  binds  her  to 
an  oath  for  a  dance  to  come,  and  then,  holding  her  prisoner 
to'm,  he  sulks,  the  dirty  dog-cat  goes  and  sulks,  and  he  won't 
dance  and  won't  do  anything  but  screech  up  in  corners  that 
he's  jilted.  He  said  the  word.  Dozens  of  gentlemen  heard  the 
word.  And  I  demand  an  apology  of  Misterr  Malkin — or 
.  .  .  .!  And  none  of  your  guerrier  nodding  and  bravado, 
Misterr  Malkin,  at  me,  if  you  please.  The  case  is  for  settle- 
ment between  gentlemen." 

The  harassed  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Malkin,  driven  to 
extremity  by  the  worrying,  stood  in  braced  preparation  for 
the  English  attitude  of  defense.  His  tormentor  drew  closer 
to  him. 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSS  WAYS.  37 

"Mind,  I  give  you  warning,  if  you  lay  a  finger  on  me  I'll 
knock  you  down,"  said  he. 

Most  joyfully  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  uttered  a  low  melodious 
cry.  "For  a  specimen  of  manners,  in  an  assembly  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  ...  I  ask  ye!"  he  addressed  the  ring 
about  him,  to  put  his  adversary  entirely  in  the  wrong  before 
provoking  the  act  of  war.  And  then,  as  one  intending  gently 
to  remonstrate,  he  was  on  the  point  of  stretching  out  his 
finger  to  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Malkin,  when  Eedworth  seized 
his  arm,  saying:    "I'm  j-our  man:  me  first:  you're  due  to  me." 

Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  beheld  the  vanishing  of  his  foe  in  a 
cloud  of  faces.  Now  was  he  wroth  on  patently  reasonable 
grounds.  He  threatened  Saxondom.  Man  up,  man  down, 
he  challenged  the  race  of  short-legged,  thickset,  wooden-pated 
curmudgeons:  and  let  it  be  pugilism  if  their  white  livers 
shivered  at  the  notion  of  powder  and  ball.  Eedworth,  in  the 
struggle  to  haul  him  away,  received  a  blow  from  him.  '^And 
you've  got  it!  you  would  have  it!"  roared  the  Celt. 

"Excuse  yourself  to  the  company  for  a  misdirected  effort," 
Redworth  said;  and  he  observed  generally:  "No  Irish  gentle- 
man strikes  a  blow  in  good  company." 

"But  that's  true  as  Writ!  And  I  offer  excuses — if  you'll 
come  along  with  me  and  a  couple  of  friends.  The  thing  has 
been  done  before  by  torchlight — and  neatly." 

"Come  along,  and  come  alone,"  said  Redworth. 

A  way  was  cleared  for  them.  Sir  Lukin  hurried  up  to 
Redworth,  who  had  no  doubt  of  his  ability  to  manage  Mr. 
Sullivan  Smith. 

He  managed  that  fine-hearted,  but  purely  sensational,  fellow 
so  well  that  Lady  Dunstane  and  Diana,  after  hearing  in  some 
anxiety  of  the  hubbub  below,  beheld  them  entering  the  long 
saloon  amicably,  with  the  nods  and  looks  of  gentlemen  quietly 
accordant. 

A  little  later.  Lady  Dunstane  questioned  Redworth,  and 
he  smoothed  her  apprehensions,  delivering  himself,  much  to 
her  comfort,  thus:  "In  no  case  would  any  lady's  name  have 
been  raised.  The  whole  affair  was  nonsensical.  He's  a  capi- 
tal fellow  of  a  kind,  capable  of  behaving  like  a  man  of  the 
world  and  a  gentleman.  Only  he  has,  or  thinks  he  has,  like 
lots  of  his  countrymen,  a  raw  wound — something  that  itches 

to  be  grazed.     Champagne  on  that! Irishmen, 

as  far  as  I  have  seen  of  them,  are,  like  horses,  bundles  of 


38  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

nerves;  and  you  must  manage  them,  as  you  do  with  all  ner- 
vous creatures,  with  firmness,  but  good  temper.  You  must 
never  get  into  a  fury  of  the  nerves  yourself  with  them.  Spur 
and  whip  they  don't  want;  they'll  be  off  with  you  in  a  jiffy  if 
you  try  it.  They  want  the  bridle-rein.  That  seems  to  me 
the  secret  of  Irish  character.  We  English  are  not  bad  horse- 
men. It's  a  wonder  we  blunder  so  in  our  management  of  such 
a  people." 

"I  wish  you  were  in  a  position  to  put  your  method  to  the 
proof,"  said  she. 

He  shrugged.    "There's  little  chance  of  it!" 

To  reward  him  for  his  practical  discretion  she  contrived  that 
Diana  should  give  him  a  final  dance:  and  the  beautiful  girl 
smiled  quickly  responsive  to  his  appeal.  He  was,  moreover, 
sensible  in  her  look  and  speech  that  he  had  advanced  in  her 
consideration  to  be  no  longer  the  mere  spinning-stick,  a  young 
lady's  partner.  By  which  he  humbly  understood  that  her 
friend  approved  him.  A  gentle  delirium  enfolded  his  brain. 
A  householder's  life  is  often  begun  on  eight  hundred  a  year: 
on  less:  on  much  less: — sometimes  on  nothing  but  resolution 
to  make  a  fitting  income,  carving  out  a  fortune.  Eight  hundred 
may  stand  as  a  superior  basis.  That  sum  is  a  distinct  point 
of  vantage.  If  it  does  not  mean  a  carriage  and  Parisian  mil- 
linery, and  a  station  for  one  of  the  stars  of  society,  it  means  at 
any  rate  security;  and  then,  the  heart  of  the  man  being 
strong  and  sound.     .     .     . 

"Yes,"  he  replied  to  her,  'TL  like  my  experience  of  Ireland 
and  the  Irish;  and  better  than  I  thought  I  should.  St.  George's 
Channel  ought  to  be  crossed  oftener  by  both  of  us." 

^Tm  always  glad  of  the  signal,"  said  Diana. 

He  had  implied  the  people  of  the  two  islands.  He  allowed 
her  interpretation  to  remain  personal,  for  the  sake  of  a  creep- 
ing deliciousness  that  it  carried  through  his  blood. 

"Shall  you  soon  be  returning  to  England?"  he  ventured  to 
ask. 

"I  am  Lady  Dunstane's  guest  for  some  months." 

"Then  you  will.  Sir  Lukin  has  an  estate  in  Surrey.  He 
talks  of  quitting  the  service." 

"I  can't  believe  it!" 

His  thrilled  blood  was  chilled.  She  entertained  a  sentiment 
amounting  to  adoration  for  the  profession  of  arms! 

Gallantly  had  the  veteran  general  and  hero  held  on  into  the 


DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS.  39 

night,  that  the  festivity  might  not  be  dashed  by  liis  departure; 
perhaps,  to  a  certain  degree,  to  prolong  his  enjoyment  of  a 
flattering  scene.  At  last  Sir  Lukin  had  the  word  from  him., 
and  came  to  his  wife.  Diana  slipped  across  the  floor  to  her 
accommodating  chaperon,  whom,  for  the  sake  of  another  five 
minutes  with  her  beloved  Emma,  she  very  agreeably  persuaded 
to  walk  in  the  train  of  Lord  Larrian,  and  forth  they  trooped 
down  a  pathway  of  nodding  heads  and  curtsies,  resembling 
oak  and  birch  trees  under  a  tempered  gale,  even  to  the  shed- 
ding of  leaves,  for  here  a  turban  was  picked  up  by  Sir  Lukin, 
there  a  jeweled  ear-ring  by  the  self-constituted  attendant,  Mr. 
Thomas  Eedworth.  At  the  portico  rank  a  wakening  cheer,, 
really  worth  hearing.  The  rain  it  rained,  and  hats  were  form- 
less, as  in  the  first  conception  of  the  edifice,  backs  were  damp, 
boots  liquidly  musical,  the  pipe  of  consolation  smoked  with 
difficulty,  with  much  pulling  at  the  stem,  but  the  cheer  arose 
magnificently,  and  multiplied  itself,  touching  at  the  same  mo- 
ment the  heavens  and  Diana's  heart — at  least,  drawing  them 
together;  for  she  felt  exalted,  enraptured,  as  proud  of  her 
countrymen  as  of  their  hero. 

"That's  the  natural  shamrock,  after  the  artificial!"  she  heard 
Mr.  Redworth  say,  behind  her. 

She  turned  and  sent  one  of  her  brilliant  glances  flying 
over  him,  in  gratitude  for  a  timely  word  well  said.  And  she 
never  forgot  the  remark  nor  he  the  look. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONTAINING  HINTS  OF  DIANA'S  EXPERIENCES  AND  OF 
WHAT  THEY  LED  TO. 

Ajortnight-afte£jJlis_meiQQiah1  e  ball  the  principal  actors 
of  "BotF^exes  had  crossed  the  Channel  back  to  England,  and 
old  Ireland  was  left  to  her  rains  from  above  and  her  un- 
drained  bogs  below;  her  physical  and  her  mental  vapors;  her 
ailments  and  her  bog-bred  doctors;  as  to  whom  the  governing 
countrj^  trusted  they  would  be  silent  or  discourse  humorously. 

The  residence  of  Sir  Lukin  Dunstane,  in  the  county  of  Sur- 
rey, inherited  by  him  during  his  recent  term  of  Indian  serv- 
ices, was  on  the  hills,  where  a  day  of  Italian  sky,  or  better,  a 


40  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

day  of  our  breezy  southwest,  washed  from  the  showery  night, 
gives  distantly  a  tower  to  view,  and  a  murky  web,  not  without 
color — the  ever-flying  banner  of  the  metropolis,  the  smoke  of 
the  city's  chimneys,  if  you  prefer  plain  language.  At  a  first 
inspection  of  the  house  Lady  Dunstane  did  not  like  it,  and  it 
was  advertised  to  be  let,  and  the  auctioneer  proclaimed  it  in 
his  dialect.  Her  taste  was  delicate;  she  had  the  sensitiveness 
of  an  invalid:  twice  she  read  the  stalking  advertisement  of 
the  attractions  of  Copsley,  and  hearing  Diana  call  it  "the 
plush  of  speech"  she  shuddered;  she  decided  that  a  place 
where  her  husband's  family  had  lived  ought  not  to  stand  forth 
meretriciously  spangled  and  daubed,  like  a  show-booth  at  a 
fair,  for  a  bait;  though  the  grandiloquent  man  of  advertising 
letters  assured  Sir  Lukin  that  a  public  agape  for  the  big  and 
gaudy  mouthful  is  in  no  milder  way  to  be  caught:  as  it  is 
apparently  the  case.  She  withdrew  the  trumpeting  placard. 
Eetract  we  likewise  ^'banner  of  the  metropolis."  That  plush 
of  speech  haunts  all  efforts  to  swell  and  illuminate  citizen- 
prose  to  a  princely  poetic. 

Yet  Lady  Dunstane  herself  could  name  the  bank  of  smoke, 
when  looking  north-eastward  from  her  summer-house,  the  flag 
of  London;  and  she  was  a  person  of  the  critical  mind,  well  able 
to  distinguish  between  the  simple  metaphor  and  the  supero- 
bese.  A  year  of  habitation  induced  her  to  conceal  her  dislike 
of  the  place  in  love:  cat's  love,  she  owned.  Here,  she  con- 
fessed to  Diana,  she  would  wish  to  live  to  her  end.  It  seemed 
remote,  where  an  invigorating  upper  air  gave  new  bloom  to 
her  cheeks;  but  she  kept  one  secret  from  her  friend. 

Copsley  was  an  estate  of  nearly  twelve  hundred  acres,  ex- 
tending across  the  ridge  of  the  hills  to  the  slopes  north  and 
south.  Seven  counties  rolled  their  backs  under  this  command- 
ing height,  and  it  would  have  tasked  a  pigeon  to  fly  within  an 
hour  the  stretch  of  country  visible  at  the  Copsley  windows. 
Sunrise  to  right,  sunset  leftward,  the  borders  of  the  grounds 
held  both  flaming  horizons.  So  much  of  the  heavens  and  of 
earth  is  rarely  granted  to  a  dwelling.  The  drawback  was  the 
structure,  which  had  no  charm,  scarce  a  face.  "It  is  written 
that  I  should  live  in  barracks,"  Lady  Dunstane  said.  The 
color  of  it  taught  white  to  impose  a  sense  of  gloom.  Her  cat's 
love  of  the  familiar  inside  corners  was  never  able  to  embrace 
the  outer  walls.  Her  sensitiveness,  too,  was  racked  by  the  pre- 
sentation of  so  pitiably  ugly  a  figure  to  the  landscape.     She 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  41 

likened  it  to  a  coarse-featured  country  wench,  whose  clean- 
ing and  decorating  of  her  countenance  makes  complexion  grin 
and  ruggedness  yawn.  Dirty,  dilapidated,  hung  with  weeds 
and  parasites,  it  would  have  been  more  tolerable.  She  tried  the 
effect  of  various  creepers,  and  they  were  as  a  staring  paint. 
What  it  was  like  then  she  had  no  heart  to  say. 

One  may,  however,  fall  on  a  pleasurable  resignation  in  ac- 
cepting great  indemnities,  as  Diana  bade  her  believe,  when 
the  first  disgust  began  to  ebb.  "A  good  hundred  over  there 
would  think  it  a  paradise  for  an  asylum:"  she  signified  Lon- 
don. Her  friend  bore  such  reminders  meekly.  They  were 
readers  of  books  of  all  sorts — political,  philosophical,  econo- 
mical, romantic;  and  they  mixed  the  diverse  readings  in 
thought,  after  the  fashion  of  the  ardently  youthful.  Romance 
affected  politics,  transformed  economy,  irradiated  philosophy. 
They  discussed  the  knotty  question.  Why  things  were  not 
done,  the  things  being  confessedly  to  do;  and  they  cut  the 
knot.  Men,  men  calling  themselves  statesmen,  declined  to 
perform  that  operation,  because,  forsooth,  other  men  objected 
to  have  it  performed  on  them.  And  common  humanity  de- 
clared it  to  be  for  the  common  weal!  If  so,  then  it  is  clearly 
indicated  as  a  course  of  action:  we  shut  our  eyes  against  logic 
and  the  vaunted  laws  of  economy.  They  are  the  knot  we  cut; 
or  would  cut,  had  we  the  sword.  Diana  did  it  to  the  tune  of 
Garryowen  or  Planxty  Kelly.  0  for  a  despot!  The  cry  was 
for  a  beneficent  despot,  naturally:  a  large-minded  benevolent 
despot.  In  short,  a  despot  to  obey  their  bidding.  Thoughtful 
young  people  who  think  through  the  heart  soon  come  to  this 
conclusion.  The  heart  is  the  beneficent  despot  they  would  be. 
He  cures  those  miseries;  he  creates  the  novel  harmony.  He 
sees  all  difficulties  through  his  own  sanguine  hues.  He  is  the 
musical  poet  of  the  problem,  demanding  merely  to  have  it 
solved  that  he  may  sing:  clear  proof  of  the  necessity  for  solv- 
ing it  immediately. 

Thus  far  in  their  pursuit  of  methods  for  the  government  of 
a  nation,  to  make  it  happy,  Diana  was  leader.  Her  fine  ardor 
and  resonance,  and,  more  than  the  convincing  ring  of  her 
voice,  the  girl's  impassioned  rapidity  in  rushing  through  any 
perceptible  avenue  of  the  labyrinth,  or  beating  down  ob- 
stacles to  form  one,  and  coming  swiftly  to  some  solution, — 
constituted  her  the  chief  of  the  pair  of  democratic  rebels  in 
questions  that  clamored  for  instant  solution.     By  dint  of 


42  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

reading  solid  writers,  using  the  brains  they  possessed,  it  was 
revealed  to  them  gradually  that  their  particular  impatience 
came  perhaps  of  the  most  earnest  desire  to  get  to  a  comfortable 
termination  of  the  inquiry — the  heart  aching  for  mankind 
sought  a  nest  for  itself.  At  this  point  Lady  Dunstane  took 
the  lead.  Diana  had  to  be  tugged  to  follow.  She  could  not  ac- 
cept a  "perhaps"  that  cast  dubiousness  on  her  disinterested 
championship.  She  protested  a  perfect  certainty  of  the  single 
aim  of  her  heart  outward.  But  she  reflected.  She  discovered 
that  her  friend  had  gone  ahead  of  her. 

The  discovery  was  reached,  and  even  acknowledged,  before 
she  could  persuade  herself  to  swallow  .the  repulsive  truth.  0 
self!  self!  self!  are  we  eternally  masking  in  a  domino  that  re- 
veals your  hideous  old  face  when  we  could  be  most  positive 
we  had  escaped  you?  Eternally!  the  desolating  answer 
knelled.  Nevertheless  the  poor,  the  starving,  the  overtaxed 
in  labor,  they  have  a  right  to  the  cry  of  Now!  now!  They 
have;  and  if  a  cry  could  conduct  us  to  the  secret  of  aiding, 
healing,  feeding,  elevating  them,  we  might  swell  the  cry.  As 
it  is,  we  must  lay  it  on  our  wits  patiently  to  track  and  find  the 
secret;  and  meantime  do  what  the  individual  with  his  poor  pit- 
tance can.  A  miserable  contribution!  sighed  the  girl.  Old 
Self  was  perceived  in  the  sigh.    She  was  haunted. 

After  all,  one  must  live  one's  life.  Placing  her  on  a  lower 
pedestal  in  her  self-esteem,  the  philosophy  of  youth  revived 
her;  and,  if  the  abatement  of  her  personal  pride  was  dispirit- 
ing, she  began  to  see  an  advantage  in  getting  inward  eyes. 

"It's  infinitely  better  I  should  know  it,  Emmy — I'm  a  rep- 
tile! Pleasure  here,  pleasure  there,  I'm  alwaj^s  thinking  of 
pleasure.  I  shall  give  up  thinking  and  take  to  drifting. 
Neither  of  us  can  do  more  than  open  purses;  and  mine's  lean. 
If  the  old  Crossways  had  no  tenant  it  would  be  a  purse  all 
mouth.  And  charity  is  haunted,  like  everything  we  do.  Only 
I  say  with  my  whole  strength — yes,  I  am  sure,  in  spite  of  the 
men  professing  that  they  are  practical,  the  rich  will  not  move 
without  a  goad.  I  have  and  hold — you  shall  hunger  and  covet, 
until  you  are  strong  enough  to  force  my  hand — that's  the 
speech  of  the  wealthy.  And  they  are  Christians.  In  name. 
Well,  I  thank  Heaven  I'm  at  war  with  myself." 

"You  always  manage  to  strike  out  a  sentence  worth  re- 
membering, Tony,"  said  Lady  Dunstane.  "At  war  with  our- 
selves means  the  best  happiness  we  can  have," 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

It  suited  her,  frail  as  her  health  was,  and  her  wisdom  striv' 
ing  to  the  spiritual  of  happiness.  War  with  herself  was  far 
from  happiness  in  the  bosom  of  Diana.  She  wanted  external 
life,  action,  fields  for  energies,  to  vary  the  struggle.  It  fretted  A 
and  rendered  her  ill  at  ease.  In  her  solitary  rides  with  Sir  /  \ 
Lukin  through  a  long  wintfiju^seaeon-  she  appalled  that  ex- — * — ^ 
cellent  bu'f^^JTJnVentionally-minded  gentleman  by  starting,  nay  I 
supporting,  theories  next  to  profane  in  the  consideration  of  a  \ 
landowner.  She  spoke  of  Reform:  of  the  Repeal  of  the  Corn 
Jjaws  as  the  simple  beginnliig  of  the^gfants  due  to  the  people. 
She  had  her  ideas,  of  course,  from  that  fellow  Redworth,  an 
occasional  visitor  at  Copsley;  and  a  man  might  be  a  donkey 
and  think  what  he  pleased,  since  he  had  a  vocabulary  to  back 
his  opinions.  A  woman.  Sir  Lukin  held,  was  by  nature  a 
mute  in  politics.  Of  the  thing  called  a  Radical  woman  he 
could  not  believe  that  she  was  less  than  monstrous:  "with  a 
nose,"  he  said;  and,  doubtless,  horse  teeth,  hatchet  jaws,  slat- 
ternly in  the  gown,  slipshod,  awful.  As  for  a  girl,  an  unmar- 
ried, handsome  girl,  admittedly  beautiful,  her  interjections, 
echoing  a  man,  were  ridiculous,  and  not  a  little  annoying  now 
and  then,  for  she  could  be  piercingly  sarcastic.  Her  vocabu- 
lary in  irony  was  a  quiverful.  He  admired  her  and  liked  her 
immensely;  complaining  only  of  her  turn  for  unfeminine  top- 
ics. He  pardoned  her  on  the  score  of  the  petty  difference 
rankling  between  them  in  reference  to  his  abandonment  of 
his  profession,  for  here  she  was  patriotically  wrong-headed. 
Everybody  knew  that  he  had  sold  out  in  order  to  look  after  his 
estates  of  Copsley  and  Dunena,  secondly;  and,  in  the  first 
place,  to  nurse  and  be  a  companion  to  his  wife.  He  had  left 
her  but  four  times  in  five  months;  he  had  spent  just  three 
weeks  of  that  time  away  from  her  in  London.  No  one  could 
doubt  of  his  having  kept  his  pledge,  although  his  wife  oc- 
cupied herself  with  books  and  notions  and  subjects  foreign  to 
his  taste — his  understanding,  too,  he  owned.  And  Redworth 
had  approved  of  his  retirement,  had  a  contempt  for  soldiering. 
"Quite  as  great  as  yours  for  civilians,  I  can  tell  you,"  Sir  Lu- 
kin said,  dashing  out  of  politics  to  the  vexatious  personal  sub- 
ject.   Her  unexpressed  disdain  was  ruffling. 

"Mr.  Redworth  recommends  work:  he  respects  the  working 
soldier,"  said  Diana. 

Sir  Lukin  exclaimed  that  he  had  been  a  working  soldier; 
he  was  ready  to  serve  if  his  country  wanted  him.  He  directed 
her  to  anathematize  peace,  instead  of  scorning  a  fellow  for 


Q> 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 


doing  the  duties  next  about  him;  and  the  mention  of  peace 
fetched  him  at  a  bound  back  to  politics.  He  quoted  a  dis- 
tinguished Tory  orator,  to  the  effect  that  any  lengthened  term 
of  peace  bred  maggots  in  the  heads  of  the  people. 

"Mr.  Eedworth  spoke  of  it:  he  translated  something  from 
Aristophanes  for  a  retort,"  said  Diana. 

"Well,  we're  friends,  eh?"  Sir  Lukin  put  forth  a  hand. 

She  looked  at  him  surprised  at  the  unnecessary  call  for  a 
show  of  friendship;  she  touched  his  hand  with  two  tips  of  her 
fingers,  remarking,  "I  should  think  so,  indeed." 

He  deemed  it  prudent  to  hint  to  his  wife  that  Diana  Merion 
appeared  to  be  meditating  upon  Mr.  Eedworth. 

"That  is  a  serious  misfortune,  if  true,"  said  Lady  Dun- 
stane.  She  thought  so  for  two  reasons:  Mr.  Eedworth  gen- 
erally disagreed  in  opinion  with  Diana,  and  contradicted  her 
so  flatly  as  to  produce  the  impression  of  his  not  even  sharing 
the  popular  admiration  of  her  beauty;  and,  further,  she  hoped 
for  Diana  to  make  a  splendid  marriage.  The  nibbles  threat- 
ened to  be  snaps  and  bites.  There  had  been  a  proposal,  in  an 
epistle,  a  quaint  effusion,  from  a  gentleman,  avowing  that  he 
had  seen  her  and  had  not  danced  with  her  on  the  night  of 
the  Irish  ball.  He  was  rejected,  but  Diana  groaned  over  the 
task  of  replying  to  the  unfortunate  applicant,  so  as  not  to 
wound  him.  "Shall  I  have  to  do  this  often,  I  wonder?"  she 
said. 

"Unless  you  capitulate,"  said  her  friend. 

Diana's  exclamation:  "May  I  be  heart-free  for  another  ten 
years!"  encouraged  Lady  Dunstane  to  suppose  her  husband 
quijja-fiaistaten:-^ 

(In  the  spring  Diana  went  on  a  first  pilgrimage-ta  her  old 
hohreT-^fitfe  Cross  ways,  and  was  kindly  entertained  by  the 
uncle  and  aunt  of  a.  treasured  nephew,  Mr.  Augustus  Warwick. 
She  rode  with  him  on  the  Downs.  A  visit  of  a  week  human- 
ized her  view  of  the  intruders.  She  wrote  almost  tenderly  of 
her  host  and  hostess  to  Lady  Dunstane;  they  had  but  "the  one 
fault  of  spoiling  their  nephew."  Him  she  described  as  a  "gen-, 
tlemanly  official,"  a  picture  of  him.  His  age  wa^^hiiiyricmr? 
He  seemed  "fond  of  her  scenery."  Then  her  pen  swept  over 
the  Downs  like  a  flying  horse.  Lady  Dunstane  thought  no 
more  of  the  gentlemanly  official.  He  was  a  barrister  who 
did  not  practice:  in  nothing  the  man  for  Diana.  Letters  came 
from  the  house  of  the  Pettigrews,  in  Kent;  from  London;  from 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  (    45 


Halford  Manor,  in  Hertfordshire;  from  Lockton  Grange,  in 
Lincolnshire:  after  which  they  ceased  to  he  the  thrice  weekly, 
and,  reading  the  latest  of  them.  Lady  Dunstane  imagined  a 
flustered  quill.  The  letter  succeeding  the  omission  contained 
no  excuse,  and  it  was  brief.  There  was  a  strange  interjection, 
as  to  the  wearifulness  of  constantly  wandering,  like  a  leaf  off 
the  tree.  Diana  spoke  of  looking  for  a  return  of  the  dear 
winter  days  at  Copsley.  That  was  her  station.  Either  she 
must  have  had  some  disturbing  experience,  or  Copsley  was  dear 
for  a  Eedworth  reason,  thought  the  anxious  peruser.  Musing, 
dreaming,  putting  together  divers  shreds  of  correspondence, 
and  testing  them  with  her  intimate  knowledge  of  Diana's 
character.  Lady  Dunstane  conceived  that  the  unprotected 
beautiful  girl  had  suffered  a  persecution,  it  might  be  an  insult. 
She  spelt  over  the  names  of  the  guests  at  the  houses.  Lord 
Wroxeter  was  of  evil  report:  Captain  Eampan,  a  turf  captain, 
had  the  like  notoriety.  And  it  is  impossible  in  a  great  house 
for  the  hostess  to  spread  her  aegis  to  cover  every  dame  and 
damsel  present.  She  has  to  depend  on  the  women  being  dis- 
creet, the  men  civilized.  "How  brutal  men  can  be!"  was  one 
of  Diana's  incidental  remarks,  in  a  subsequent  letter,  relating 
simply  to  masculine  habits.  In  those  days  the  famous  ances- 
tral plea  of  "the  passion  for  his  charmer"  had  not  been  alto- 
gether socially  quashed  down  among  the  provinces,  where  the 
bottle  maintained  a  sort  of  sway,  and  the  beauty  which  in- 
flfimed  the  sons  of  men  was  held  to  be  in  coy  expectation  of 
violent  effects  upon  their  boiling  blood.  There  were,  one 
hears  that  there  still  are,  remnants  of  the  pristine  male,  who, 
if  resisted  in  their  suing,  conclude  that  they  are  scorned,  and 
it  infuriates  them;  some  also  whose  "passion  for  the  charmer" 
is  an  instinct  to  pull  down  the  standard  of  the  sex,  by  a  bully 
imposition  of  sheer  physical  ascendancy,  whenever  they  see  it 
flying  with  an  air  of  gallant  independence;  and  some  who  dedi- 
cate their  lives  to  a  study  of  the  arts  of  the  Lord  of  Reptiles, 
until  they  have  worked  the  crisis  for  a  display  of  him  in  person. 
Assault  or  siege,  they  have  achieved  their  triumphs;  they  have 
dominated  a  frailer  system  of  nerves,  and  a  young  woman 
without  father,  or  brother,  or  husband  to  defend  her,  is  cry- 
ingly  a  weak  one,  therefore  inviting  to  such  an  order  of  he- 
roes. Lady  Dunstane  was  quick-witted  and  had  a  talkative 
husband;  she  knew  a  little  of  the  upper  social  world  of  her  t     / 

time.    She  was  heartily  glad  to  have  Diana  by  her  side  again.  Iaj-x-a/^ 


46  BMNA  OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

Not  a  word  of  any  serious  experience  was  uttered.  Only 
on  one  occasion,  while  they  conversed,  something  being  men- 
tioned of  her  tolerance,  a  flush  of  swarthy  crimson  shot  over 
Diana,  and  she  frowned,  with  the  outcry,  ''Oh!  I  have  dis- 
covered that  I  can  be  a  tigress!" 

Her  friend  pressed  her  hand,  saying,  "The  cause  a  good 
one!" 

"Women  have  to  fight." 

Diana  said  no  more.  There  had  been  a  bad  experience  of 
her  isolated  position  in  the  world. 

Lady  Dunstane  now  indulged  a  partial  hope  that  Mr.  Eed- 
worth  might  see  in  this  unprotected  beautiful  girl  a  person 
worthy  of  his  esteem.  He  had  his  opportunities,  and  evi- 
dently he  liked  her.  She  appeared  to  take  more  cordially  to 
him.  She  valued  the  sterling  nature  of  the  man.  But  they 
were  a  hopeless  couple,  they  were  so  friendl}^  Both  ladies 
noticed  in  him  an  abstractedness  of  look,  often  when  convers- 
ing, as  of  a  man  in  calculation;  they  put  it  down  to  an  ambi- 
tious mind.  Yet  Diana  said  then,  and  said  always,  that  it  was 
he  who  had  first  taught  her  the  art  of  observing.  On  the 
whole,  the  brilliant  marriage  seemed  a  fairer  prospect  for  her; 
how  reasonable  to  anticipate.  Lady  Dunstane  often  thought, 
when  admiring  the  advance  of  Diana's  beauty  in  queenli- 
ness,  for  never  did  woman  carry  her  head  more  grandly,  more 
thrillingly  make  her  presence  felt;  and  if  only  she  had  been 
an  actress,  showing  herself  nightly  on  a  London  stage,  she 
would  before  now  have  met  the  superb  appreciation,  melan- 
choly to  reflect  upon! 

Diana  regained  her  happy  composure  at  Copsley.  She  had, 
as  she  imagined,  no  ambition.  The  dullness  of  the  place  con- 
veyed a  charm  to  a  nature  recovering  from  disturbance  to  its 
clear  smooth  flow.  Air,  light,  books,  and  her  friend,  these 
good  things  she  had;  they  were  all  she  wanted.  She  rode,  she 
walked,  with  Sir  Lukin  or  Mr.  Eedworth,  for  companion;  or 
with  Saturday  and  Sunday  guests,  Lord  Larrian,  her  declared 
admirer,  among  them.  "Twenty  years  younger!"  he  said  to 
her,  shrugging,  with  a  merry  smile  drawn  a  little  at  the 
corners  to  sober  sourness;  and  she  vowed  to  her  friend  that  she 
would  not  have  had  the  heart  to  refuse  him.  "Though,"  said 
she,  "speaking  generally,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  foreign  ani- 
mal a  husband  would  appear  in  my  kingdom."  Her  expe- 
rience had  wakened  a  sexual  aversion,  of  some  slight  kind, 


DIANA    OF    THE   CROSS  WAYS.  M7         7 

enough  to  make  her  feminine  pride  stipulate  for  perfect  inde- 
pendence, that  she  might  have  the  calm  out  of  which  imagina- 
tion spreads  wing.  Imagination  had  become  her  broader  life, 
and  on  such  an  earth,  under  such  skies,  a  husband  who  is  not 
the  fountain  of  them  certainly  is  a  foreign  animal:  he  is  a 
discordant  note.  He  contracts  the  ethereal  world,  deadens 
radiancy.  He  is  gross  fact,  a  leash,  a  muzzle,  harness,  a  hood, 
whatever  is  detestable  to  the  free  limbs  and  senses.  It  amused 
Lady  Dunstane  to  hear  Diana  say,  one  evening  when  their 
conversation  fell  by  hazard  on  her  future,  that  the  idea  of  a 
convent  was  more  welcome  to  her  than  the  most  splendid  mar- 
riage. "For,^'  she  added,  "as  I  am  sure  I  shall  never  know 
anything  of  this  love  they  rattle  about  and  rave  about,  I  shall 
do  well  to  keep  to  my  good  single  path;  and  I  have  a  warning 
within  me  that  a  step  out  of  it  will  be  a  wrong  one — for  me, 
dearest!" 

She  wished  her  view  of  the  yoke  to  be  considered  purely 
personal,  drawn  from  no  examples  and  comparisons.  The  ex- 
cellent Sir  Lukin  was  passing  a  great  deal  of  his  time  in  Lon- 
don. His  wife  had  not  a  word  of  blame  for  him;  he  was  a  re- 
spectful husband,  and  attentive  when  present;  but  so  uncer- 
tain, owing  to  the  sudden  pressure  of  engagements,  that  Diana, 
bound  on  a  second  visit  to  The  Crossways,  doubted  whether 
she  w^ould  be  able  to  quit  her  friend,  whose  condition  did  not 
allow  of  her  being  left  solitary  at  Copsley.  He  came  never- 
theless a  day  before  Diana's  appointed  departure  on  her  round 
of  visits.  She  was  pleased  with  him,  and  let  him  see  it,  for 
the  encouragement  of  a  husband  in  the  observance  of  his  du- 
ties. One  of  the  horses  had  fallen  lame,  so  they  went  out  for 
a  walk,  at  Lady  Dunstane's  request.  It  was  a  delicious  after-  ^^  , 
noon  of  spring,  with  the  full  red  disk  of  sun  dropping  behind  '  vj*'  \J 
the  brown  beech-twigs.  She  remembered  long  afterward  the^]  ^T 
sweet  simpleness  of  her  feelings  as  she  took  in  the  scent  of -.3, 
wild  flowers  along  the  lanes  and  entered  the  woods — jaws  of 
another  monstrous  and  blackening  experience.  He  fell  into 
the  sentimental  vein,  and  a  man  coming  from  that  heated 
London  life  to  these  glorified  woods  might  be  excused  for  do- 
ing so,  though  it  sounded  to  her  just  a  little  ludicrous  in  him. 
She  played  tolerantly  second  to  it;  she  quoted  a  snatch  of 
poetry,  and  his  whole  face  was  bent  to  her,  with  the  petition 
that  she  would  repeat  the  verse.  Much  struck  was  this  giant 
ex-dragoon.    Ah!  how  fine!  grand!    He  would  rather  hear  that 


48  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

than  any  opera:  it  was  diviner!  "Yes,  the  best  poetry  is/'  she 
assented.  "On  your  lips/'  he  said.  She  laughed.  "I  am  not 
a  particularly  melodious  reciter."  He  vowed  he  could  listen 
to  her  eternal^,  eternally.  His  face,  on  a  screw  of  the  neck 
and  shoulders,  was  now  perpetually  three-quarters  fronting. 
Ah!  she  was  going  to  leave.  "Yes,  and  you  will  find  my  re- 
turn quite  early  enough,"  said  Diana,  stepping  a  trifle  more 
briskly.  His  fist  was  raised  on  the  length  of  the  arm,  as  if  in 
invocation.  "JSTot  in  the  whole  of  London  is  there  a  woman 
worthy  to  fasten  your  shoe-buckles!  My  oath  on  it!  I  look; 
I  can't  spy  one."    Such  was  his  flattering  eloquence. 

She  told  him  not  to  think  it  necessary  to  pay  her  compli- 
ments. "And  here,  of  all  places!"  They  were  in  the  heart  of 
the  woods.  She  found  her  hand  seized — her  waist.  Even  then, 
so  impossible  is  it  to  conceive  the  unimaginable  even  when 
the  apparition  of  it  smites  us,  she  expected  some  protesting 
absurdity,  or  that  he  had  seen  something  in  her  path.  What 
did  she  hear?    And  from  her  friend's  husband! 

If  stricken  idiotic,  he  was  a  gentleman;  the  tigress  she  had 
detected  in  her  composition  did  not  require  to  be  called  forth; 
half-a-dozen  words,  direct,  sharp  as  fangs  and  teeth,  with  the 
eyes  burning  over  them,  sufficed  for  the  work  of  defense. 
"The  man  who  swore  loyalty  to  Emma!"  Her  reproachful  re- 
pulsion of  eyes  was  unmistakable,  withering;  as  masterful  as 
a  superior  force  on  his  muscles.  "What  thing  had  he  been 
taking  her  for?  She  asked  it  within:  and  he  of  himself,  in  a 
reflective  gasp.  Those  eyes  of  hers  appeared  as  in  a  cloud, 
with  the  wrath  above:  she  had  the  look  of  a  goddess  in  anger. 
He  stammered,  pleaded  across  her  flying  shoulder — Oh!  horri- 
ble, loathsome,  pitiable  to  hear!     ....     "A  momentary 

aberration her  beauty     ....     he  deserved 

to  be  shot!  ....  could  not  help  admiring  .... 
quite  lost  his  head     .     .     .     .     on  his  honor!  never  again!" 

Once  in  the  roadway,  and  Copsley  visible,  she  checked  her 
arrowy  pace  for  breath,  and  almost  commiserated  the  de- 
jected wretch  in  her  thankfulness  to  him  for  silence.  Noth- 
ing exonerated  him,  but  at  least  he  had  the  grace  not  to  beg 
secrecy.  That  would  have  been  an  intolerable  whine  of  a  pol- 
troon, adding  to  her  humiliation.  He  abstained 5  he  stood  at 
her  mercy  without  appealing. 

She  was  not  the  woman  to  take  poor  vengeance.  But,  oh! 
she  was  prof ooindly  humiliated,  shamed  through  and  through. 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  49 

The  question,  Was  I  guilty  of  any  lightness — anything  to  bring 
this  on  me?  would  not  be  laid.  And  how  she  pitied  her 
friend!  This  house,  her  heart's  home,  was  now  a  wreck  to 
her:  nay  worse,  a  hostile  citadel.  The  burden  of  the  task  of 
meeting  Emma  with  an  open  face  crushed  her  like  very  guilt. 
Yet  she  succeeded.  After  an  hour  in  her  bedchamber  she 
managed  to  lock  up  her  heart  and  summon  the  sprite  of  act- 
ing to  her  tongue  and  features;  which  ready  attendant  on  the 
suffering  female  host  performed  his  liveliest  throughout  the 
evening,  to  Emma's  amusement  and  to  the  culprit  ex-dra- 
goon's astonishment;  in  whom,  to  tell  the  truth  of  him,  her 
sparkle  and  fun  kindled  the  sense  of  his  being  less  criminal 
than  he  had  supposed,  with  a  dim  vision  of  himself  as  the 
real  proven  donkey  for  not  having  been  a  harmless  dash  more 
so.  But,  to  be  just  as  well  as  penetrating,  this  was  only  the 
effect  of  her  personal  charm  on  his  nature.  So  it  spurred  him 
a  moment  when  it  struck  this  doleful  man  that  to  have  secured 
one  kiss  of  those  fresh  and  witty  sparkling  lips  he  would  en- 
dure forfeits,  pangs,  anything  save  the  hanging  of  his 
culprit's  head  before  his  Emma.  Eeflection  washed  him 
clean.  Secrecy  is  not  a  medical  restorative,  by  no  means  a 
good  thing  for  the  baffled  amorously-adventurous  cavalier, 
unless  the  lady's  character  shall  have  been  firmly  established 
in  or  over  his  hazy  wagging  noddle.  Eeflection  informed  him 
that  the  honorable,  generous,  proud  girl  spared  him  for  the 
sake  of  the  house  she  loved.  After  a  night  of  tossing,  he  rose 
right  heartily  repentant.  He  showed  it  in  the  best  manner, 
not  dramatically.  On  her  accepting  his  offer  to  drive  her 
down  to  the  valley  to  meet  the  coach,  a  genuine  illumination 
of  pure  gratitude  made  a  better  man  of  him,  both  to  look  at 
and  in  feeling.  She  did  not  hesitate  to  consent;  and  he  had 
half  expected  a  refusal.  She  talked  on  the  way  quite  as 
usual,  cheerfully,  if  not  altogether  so  spiritedly.  A  flash  of 
her  matchless  wit  now  and  then  reduced  him  to  that  abject 
state  of  man  beside  the  fair  person  he  has  treated  high  cava- 
lierly, which  one  craves  permission  to  describe  as  pulp.  He 
was  utterly  beaten. 

The  sight  of  Eedworth  on  the  valley  road  was  a  relief  to 
them  both.  He  had  slept  in  one  of  the  houses  of  the  valley, 
and  spoke  of  having  had  the  intention  to  mount  to  Copsley. 
Sir  Lukin  proposed  to  drive  him  back.  He  glanced  at  Diana, 
still  with  that  calculating  abstract  air  of  his,  and  he  was  ral- 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

lied.  He  confessed  to  being  absorbed  in  railways,  new  lines  of 
railways  projected  to  thread  the  land  and  fast  mapping  it. 

"You've  not  embarked  money  in  them?"  said  Sir  Lukin. 

The  answer  was,  "I  have;  all  I  possess."  And  Redworth 
for  a  sharp  instant  set  his  eyes  on  Diana,  indifferent  to  Sir 
Lukin's  bellow  of  stupefaction  at  such  gambling  on  the  part 
of  a  prudent  fellow. 

He  asked  her  where  she  was  to  be  met,  where  written  to, 
during  the  summer,  in  case  of  his  wishing  to  send  her  news. 

She  replied,  "Copsley  will  be  the  surest.  I  am  always  in 
communication  with  Lady  Dunstane."  She  colored  deeply. 
The  recollection  of  the  change  of  her  feeling  for  Copsley  suf- 
fused her  maiden  mind. 

The  strange  blush  prompted  an  impulse  in  Eedworth  to 
speak  to  her  at  once  of  his  venture  in  railways.  But  what 
would  she  understand  of  them,  as  connected  with  the  mighty 
stake  he  was  playing  for?  He  delayed.  The  coach  came  at 
a  trot  of  the  horses,  admired  by  Sir  Lukin,  round  a  corner. 
She  entered  it,  her  maid  followed,  the  door  banged,  the  horses 
trotted.     She  was  off. 

Her  destiny  of  The  Crossways  tied  a  knot,  barred  a  gate, 
and  pointed  to  a  new  direction  of  the  road  on  that  fine  spring 
morning,  when  beech-buds  were  near  the  burst,  cowslips  yel- 
lowed the  meadow-fiats,  and  skylarks  quivered  upward. 

For  many  long  years  Redworth  had  in  his  memory,  for  a 
comment  on  procrastination  and  excessive  scrupulousness  in 
his  calculating  faculty,  the  blue  back  of  a  coach. 

He  declined  the  vacated  place  beside  Sir  Lukin,  promising 
to  come  and  spend  a  couple  of  days  at  Copsley  in  a  fortnig^it 
-^Saturday  week.  He  wanted,  he  said,  to  have  a  talk  with 
Lady  Dunstane.  Evidently  he  had  railways  on  the  brain, 
and  Sir  Lukin  warned  his  wife  to  be  guarded  against  the 
speculative  mania,  and  advise  the  man,  if  she  could. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CONCERNING  THE  SCRUPULOUS  GENTLEMAN  WHO  CAME 
TOO  LATE. 

On  the  Saturday  of  his  appointment  Redworth  arrived  at 
Copsley,  with  a  shade  deeper  of  the  calculating  look  under 
his  thick  brows  habitual  to  him  latterly.     He  found  Lady 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  51 

Dunstane  at  her  desk,  pen  in  hand,  the  paper  untouched; 
and  there  was  an  appearance  of  trouble  about  her  somewhat 
resembhng  his  own,  as  he  would  have  observed  had  he  been 
open-minded  enough  to  notice  anything,  except  that  she  was 
writing  a  letter.  He  begged  her  to  continue  it;  he  proposed 
to  read  a  book  till  she  was  at  leisure. 

"I  have  to  write,  and  scarcely  know  how,"  said  she,  clear- 
ing her  face  to  make  the  guest  at  home,  and  taking  a  chair 
by  the  fire;  "I  would  rather  chat  for  half  an  hour." 

She  spoke  of  the  weather — frosty,  but  tonic;  bad  for  the 
last  days  of  hunting,  good  for  the  farmer  and  the  country,  let 
us  hope. 

Eedworth  nodded  assent.  It  might  be  surmised  that  he 
was  brooding  over  those  railways  in  which  he  had  embarked 
his  fortune.  Ah!  those  railways!  She  was  not  long  coming 
to  the  wailful  exclamation  upon  them,  both  to  express  her 
"personal  sorrow  at  the  disfigurement  of  our  dear  England, 
and  lead  to  a  little,  modest,  offering  of  a  woman's  counsel 
to  the  rash  adventurer;  for  thus  could  she  serviceably  put 
aside  her  perplexity  awhile.  Those  railways!  When  would 
there  be  peace  in  the  land?  Where  one  single  nook  of  shelter 
and  escape  from  them!  And  the  English,  blunt  as  their 
senses  are,  to  noise  and  hubbub,  would  be  reveling  in  hisses, 
shrieks,  puffings,  and  screeches,  so  that  traveling  would  be- 
come an  intolerable  aiffiction.  "I  speak  rather  as  an  in- 
valid," she  admitted;  "I  conjure  up  all  sorts  of  horrors,  the 
whistle  in  the  night  beneath  one's  windows,  and  the  smoke 
of  trains  defacing  the  landscape;  hideous  accidents  too. 
They  will  be  wholesale  and  past  help.  Imagine  a  collision! 
I  have  borne  many  changes  with  equanimity,  I  pretend  to  a 
certain  degree  of  philosophy,  but  this  mania  for  cutting  up  the 
land  does  really  cause  me  to  pity  those  who  are  to  follow  us. 
They  will  not  see  the  England  we  have  seen.  It  will  be 
patched  and  scored,  disfigured  ....  a  sort  of  barbar- 
ous Maori  visage — England  in  a  New  Zealand  mask.  You  may 
call  it  the  sentimental  view.  In  this  case  I  am  decidedly  sen- 
timental; I  love  my  country.  I  do  love  quiet,  rural  England. 
Well,  and  I  love  beauty;  I  love  simplicity.  All  that  will  be 
destroyed  by  the  refuse  of  the  towns  flooding  the  land — ^bar- 
ring accidents,  as  Lukin  says.  There  seems  nothing  else  to 
save  us." 

Eedworth  acquiesced.     "Nothing." 


w. 


52  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"And  you  do  not  regret  it?"  he  was  asked. 

"J^ot  a  bit.  We  have  already  exchanged  opinions  on  the 
subject.  Simplicity  must  go,  and  the  townsman  meet  his 
equal  in  the  countryman.  As  for  beauty,  I  would  sacrifice 
that  to  circulate  gumption.  A  bushelful  of  nonsense  is  talked 
pro  and  con;  it  always  is  at  an  innovation.  What  we  are  now 
doing  is  to  take  a  longer  and  a  quicker  stride — that  is  all." 

"And  establishing  a  new  field  for  the  speculator?" 

"Yes,  and  I  am  one;  and  this  is  the  matter  I  wanted  to  dis- 
cuss with  you.  Lady  Dunstane,"  said  Eedworth,  bending  for- 
ward, the  whole  man  devoted  to  the  point  of  business. 

She  declared  she  was  complimented;  she  felt  the  compli- 
ment, and  trusted  her  advice  might  be  useful,  faintly  remark- 
ing that  she  had  a  woman's  head;  and  "not  less"  was  implied 
as  much  as  "not  more,"  in  order  to  give  strength  to  her  pros- 
pective opposition. 

All  his  money,  she  heard,  was  down  on  the  railway  table. 
He  might,  within  a  year,  have  a  tolerable  fortune;  and,  of 
course,  he  might  be  ruined.  He  did  not  expect  it;  still  he 
fronted  the  risks.  "And  now,"  said  he,  "I  come  to  you  for 
counsel.  I  am  not  held  among  my  acquaintances  to  be  a 
marrying  man,  as  it  is  called." 

He  paused.  Lady  Dunstane  thought  it  an  occasion  to 
praise  him  for  his  considerateness. 

"You  involve  no  one  but  yourself,  you  mean?"  Her  eyes 
shed  approval.  "Still  the  day  may  come  ....  I  say 
only  that  it  may;  and  the  wish  to  marry  is  a  rosy  coloring 
.  .  .  .  equal  to  a  flying  chariot  in  conducting  us  across 
difficulties  and  obstructions  to  the  deed.  And  then  one  may 
have  to  regret  a  previous  rashness." 

These  practical  men  are  sometimes  obtuse;  she  dwelt  on 
that  vision  of  the  future. 

He  listened,  and  resumed:  "My  view  of  marriage  is,  that 
no  man  should  ask  a  woman  to  be  his  wife  unless  he  is  well 
able  to  support  her  in  the  comforts,  not  to  say  luxuries,  she 
is  accustomed  to."  His  gaze  had  wandered  to  the  desk;  it 
fixed  there.     "That  is  Miss  Merion's  writing,"  he  said. 

"The  letter?"  said  Lady  Dunstane,  and  she  stretched  out 
her  hand  to  press  down  a  leaf  of  it.     "Yes;  it  is  from  he*"." 

'T.S  she  quite  well?" 

"I  suppose  she  is.     She  does  not  speak  of  her  health." 

He  looked  pertinaciously  in  the  direction  of  the  letter,  and 


DIANA    OF  THE    CR09SWAYS.  53 

it  was  not  rightly  mannered.  That  letter,  of  all  others,  was 
covert  and  sacred  to  the  friend.  It  contained  the  weightiest 
of  secrets. 

"I  have  not  written  to  her,"  said  Redworth. 

He  was  astonishing:  "To  whom?  To  Diana?  You  could 
very  well  have  done  so,  only  I  fancy  she  knows  nothing,  has 
never  given  a  thought  to  railway  stocks  and  shares;  she  has 
a  loathing  for  speculation." 

"And  speculators  too,  I  dare  say." 

"It  is  extremely  probable."  Lady  Dunstane  spoke  with  an 
emphasis,  for  the  man  liked  Diana,  and  would  be  moved  by 
the  idea  of  forfeiting  her  esteem. 

"She  might  blame  me  if  I  did  anything  dishonorable." 

"She  certainly  would." 

"She  will  have  no  cause." 

Lady  Dunstane  began  to  look,  as  at  a  cloud  charged  with 
remote  explosions;  and  still  for  the  moment  she  was  unsus- 
pecting. But  it  was  a  flitting  moment.  When  he  went  on, 
and  very  singularly  droning  to  her  ear:  "The  more  a  man 
loves  a  woman  the  more  he  should  be  positive,  before  asking 
her,  that  she  will  not  have  to  consent  to  a  loss  of  position, 
and  I  would  rather  lose  her  than  fail  to  give  her  all — not  be 
sure,  as  far  as  a  man  can  be  sure,  of  giving  her  all  I  think 
she's  worthy  of;"  then  the  cloud  shot  a  lighting  flash,  and  the 
doors  of  her  understanding  swung  wide  to  the  entry  of  a  great 
wonderment.  A  shock  of  pain  succeeded  it.  Her  sympathy 
was  roused  so  acutely  that  she  slipped  over  the  reflective  re- 
buke she  would  have  addressed  to  her  silly  delusion  concern- 
ing his  purpose  in  speaking  of  his  affairs  to  a  woman. 
Though  he  did  not  mention  Diana  by  name,  Diana  was  clearly 
the  person.  And  why  had  he  delayed  to  speak  to  her?  Be- 
cause of  this  venture  of  his  money  to  make  him  a  fortune,  for 
the  assurance  of  her  future  comfort!  Here  was  the  best  of 
men  for  the  girl,  not  displeasing  to  her;  a  good,  strong,  trust- 
worthy man,  pleasant  to  hear  and  to  see,  only  erring  in  being  a 
trifle  too  scrupulous  in  love;  and  a  fortnight  back  she  would 
have  imagined  he  had  no  chance;  and  now  she  knew  that  the 
chance  was  excellent  in  those  days,  with  this  revelation  in 
Diana's  letter,  which  said  that  all  chance  was  over. 

^The  courtship  of  a  woman,"  he  droned  away,  "is  in  my 
mind  not  fair  to  her  until  a  man  has  to  the  full  enough  to 
sanction  his  asking  her  to  marry  him.    And  if  he  throws  all 


54  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

he  possesses  on  a  stake  ....  to  win  her — give  her 
what  she  has  a  right  to  claim,  he  ought     ....     Only  at 

present  the  prospect  seems  good He  ought,  of 

course,  to  wait.  Well,  the  value  of  the  stock  I  hold  has  dou- 
bled, and  it  increases.  I  am  a  careful  watcher  of  the  market. 
I  have  friends — brokers  and  railway  directors.  I  can  rely  on 
them.'' 

"Pray,"  interposed  Lady  Dunstane,  "specify — ^I  am  rather 
in  a  mist — ^the  exact  point  upon  which  you  do  me  the  honor 
to  consult  me.''  She  ridiculed  herself  for  having  imagined 
that  such  a  man  would  come  to  consult  her  upon  a  point  of 
business. 

"It  is,"  he  replied,  "this;  whether,  as  affairs  now  stand 
with  me — ^I  have  an  income  from  my  office,  and  personal 
property  ....  say  between  thirteen  and  fourteen  hun- 
dred a  year  to  start  with — whether  you  think  me  justified  in 
asking  a  lady  to  share  my  lot?" 

"Why  not?     But  will  you  name  the  lady?" 

"Then  I  may  write  at  once?    In  your  judgment 

Yes,  the  lady.  I  have  not  named  her.  I  had  no  right.  Be- 
sides, the  general  question  first,  in  fairness  to  the  petitioner. 
You  might  reasonably  stipulate  for  more  for  a  friend.  She 
could  make  a  match,  as  you  have  said  .  ..."  he  mut- 
tered of  "brilliant"  and  "the  highest";  and  his  humbleness  of 
the  honest  man  enamored  touched  Lady  Dunstane.  She  saw 
him  now  as  the  man  of  strength  that  she  would  have  selected 
from  a  thousand  suitors  to  guide  her  dear  friend. 

She  caught  at  a  straw,  "Tell  me,  it  is  not  Diana?" 

"Diana  Merion!" 

As  soon  as  he  had  said  it  he  perceived  pity,  and  he  drew 
himself  tight  for  the  stroke.     "She's  in  love  with  some  one?" 

"She  is  engaged." 

He  bore  it  well.  He  was  a  big-chested  fellow,  and  that  ex- 
cruciating twist  within  of  the  revolution  of  the  wheels  of  the 
brain  snapping  their  course  to  grind  the  contrary  to  that  of 
the  heart  was  revealed  in  one  short  lift  and  gasp,  a  compres- 
sion of  the  tremendous  change  he  underwent. 

"Why  did  you  not  speak  before?"  said  Lady  Dunstane. 
Her  words  were  tremulous. 

"I  should  have  had  no  justification." 

"You  might  have  won  her!"    She  could  have  wept;   her 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  ( 55  1 

j 

sympathy  and  her  self-condolence  under  disappointment  at 
Diana's  conduct  joined  to  swell  the  feminine  flood. 

The  poor  fellow's  quick  breathing  and  blinking  reminded 
her  of  cruelty  in  a  retrospect.  She  generalized  to  ease  her 
spirit  of  regret,  by  hinting  it  without  hurting:  "Women  really 
are  not  puppets.  They  are  not  so  excessively  luxurious.  It 
is  good  for  young  women  in  the  early  days  of  marriage  to 
rough  it  a  little."     She  found  herself  droning,  as  he  had  done. 

He  had  ears  for  nothing  but  the  fact. 

"Then  I  am  too  late!" 

"I  have  heard  it  to-day." 

"She  is  engaged!     Positively?" 

Lady  Dunstane  glanced  backward  at  the  letter  on  her  desk. 
She  had  to  answer  the  strangest  of  letters  that  had  ever  come 
to  her,  and  it  was  from  her  dear  Tony,  the  baldest  intimation 
of  the  weightiest  piece  of  intelligence  which  a  woman  can 
communicate  to  her  heart's  friend.  The  task  of  answering  it 
was  now  doubled.  "I  fear  so,  I  fancy  so,"  she  said,  and  she 
longed  to  cast  eye  over  the  letter  again,  to  see  if  there  might 
possibly  be  a  loophole  behind  the  lines. 

"Then  I  must  make  my  mind  up  to  it,"  said  Redworth. 
"I  think  I'll  take  a  walk." 

She  smiled  kindly.     "It  will  be  our  secret." 

"I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  Lady  Dunstane." 

He  was  not  a  weaver  of  phrases  in  distress.  His  blunt  re- 
serve was  eloquent  of  it  to  her,  and  she  liked  him  the  better; 
could  have  thanked  him,  too,  for  leaving  her  promptly. 

When  she  was  alone  she  took  in  the  contents  of  the  letter 
at  a  hasty  glimpse.  It  was  of  one  paragraph,  and  fired  its 
shot  like  a  cannon  with  the  muzzle  at  her  breast: 

"My  Own  Emmy, — I  have  been  asked  in  marriage  by  Mr. 
Warwick,  and  have  accepted  him.  Signify  your  approval, 
for  I  have  decided  that  it  is  the  wisest  thing  a  waif  can  do. 
We  are  to  live  at  The  Crossways  for  four  months  of  the  year, 
so  I  shall  have  Dada  in  his  best  days  and  all  my  youngest 
dreams,  my  sunrise  and  morning  dew,  surrounding  me;  my 
old  home  for  my  new  one.  I  write  in  haste,  to  you  first,  burn- 
ing to  hear  from  you.  Send  your  blessing  to  yours  in  life  and 
death,  through  all  transformations, — Toky."  If 

That  was  all.  Not  a  word  of  the  lover  about  to  be  deco- 
rated with  the  title  of  husband.     No  confession  of  love,  nor 


56  DIlANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

a  single  supplicating  word  to  her  friend,  in  excuse  for  tlie 
abrupt  decision  to  so  grave  a  step.  Her  previous  description 
of  him,  as  a  "gentlemanly  official"  in  his  appearance,  con- 
jured him  up  most  distastefully.  True,  she  might  have  made 
a  more  lamentable  choice;  a  silly  lordling,  or  a  hero  of  scan- 
dal; but,  if  a  "gentlemanly  official"  was  of  stabler  mold,  he 
failed  to  harmonize  quite  so  well  with  the  idea  of  a  creature 
like  Tony.  Perhaps  Mr.  Eedworth  also  failed  in  something. 
Where  was  the  man  fitly  to  mate  her?  Mr.  Eedworth, 
however,  was  manly  and  trustworthy;  of  the  finest  Saxon  type 
in  build  and  in  character.  He  had  great  qualities,  and  his  ex- 
cess of  scrupulousness  was  most  pitiable. 

She  read,  "The  wisest  thing  a  waif  can  do."  It  bore  a 
sound  of  desperation.  Avowedly  Tony  had  accepted  him 
without  being  in  love.  Or  was  she  masking  the  passion?  No; 
had  it  been  a  case  of  love  she  would  have  written  very  differ- 
ently to  her  friend. 

Lady  Dunstane  controlled  the  pricking  of  the  wound  in- 
flicted by  Diana's  novel  exercise  in  laconics  where  the  fullest 
flow  was  due  to  tenderness,  and  dispatched  felicitations  upon 
the  text  of  the  initial  line,  "Wonders  are  always  happening." 
She  wrote  to  hide  vexation  beneath  surprise;  naturally  be- 
traying it.  "I  must  hope  and  pray  that  you  have  not  been 
precipitate."  Her  curiosity  to  inspect  the  happiest  of  men, 
the  most  genuine  part  of  her  letter,  was  expressed  coldly. 
When  she  had  finished  the  composition  she  perused  it,  and 
did  not  recognize  herself  in  her  language,  though  she  had 
been  so  guarded  to  cover  the  wound  her  Tony  dealt  their 
friendship,  in  some  degree  injuring  their  sex.  For  it  might 
now,  after  such  an  example,  verily  seem  that  women  are  in- 
capable of  a  translucent  perfect  confidence;  their  impulses, 
caprices,  desperations,  tricks  of  concealment,  trip  a  heart- 
whole  friendship.  Well,  to-morrow,  if  not  to-day,  the  trip- 
ping may  be  expected!  Lady  Dunstane  resigned  herself  sadly 
to  a  lowered  view  of  her  Tony's  character.  This  was  her  un- 
conscious act  of  reprisal.  Her  brilliant  beloved  Tony,  daz- 
zling but  in  beauty  and  the  gifted  mind,  stood  as  one  essen- 
tially with  the  common  order  of  women.  She  wished  to  be 
settled,  Mr.  Warwick  proposed,  and  for  the  sake  of  living  at 
The  Crossways  she  accepted  him;  she,  the  lofty  scorner  of 
loveless  marriages!  who  had  said — how  many  times! — that 
nothing  save  love  excused  it!     She  degraded  their  mutual 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  57 

high  standard  of  womankind.  Diana  was  in  eclipse  full  three 
parts.  The  hulk  of  the  gentlemanly  official  she  had  chosen 
obscured  her.  But  I  have  written  very  carefully,  thought 
Lady  Dunstane,  dropping  her  answer  into  the  post-hag.  She 
had,  indeed,  been  so  careful  that,  to  cloak  her  feeling,  she  had 
written  as  another  person.  Women  with  otiose  husbands  have 
a  task  to  preserve  friendship. 

Redworth  carried  his  burden  through  the  frosty  air  at  a 
pace  to  melt  icicles  in  Greenland.  He  walked  unthinkingly, 
right  ahead,  to  the  red  West,  as  he  discovered  when  pausing 
to  consult  his  watch.  Time  was  left  to  return  at  the  same 
pace  and  dress  for  dinner;  he  swung  round  and  picked  up 
remembrances  of  sensations  he  had  strewn  by  the  way.  She 
knew  these  woods;  he  was  walking  in  her  footprints;  she 
was  engaged  to  be  married.  Yes,  his  principle,  never  to  ask 
a  woman  to  marry  him,  never  to  court  her,  without  bank- 
book assurance  of  his  ability  to  support  her  in  cordial  com- 
fort, was  right.  He  maintained  it,  and  owned  himself  a 
donkey  for  having  stuck  to  it.  Between  him  and  his  excellent 
principle  there  was  war,  without  the  slightest  division. 
Warned  of  the  danger  of  losing  her,  he  would  have  done  the 
same  again,  confessing  himself  donkey  for  his  pains.  The 
principle  was  right,  because  it  was  due  to  the  woman.  His 
rigid  adherence  to  the  principle  set  him  belaboring  his 
donkey-ribs,  as  the  proper  due  to  himself.  For  he  might 
have  had  a  chance,  all  through  two  winters.  The  oppor- 
tunities had  been  numberless.  Here,  in  this  beech  Avood; 
near  that  thornbush;  on  the  juniper  slope;  from  the  corner 
of  chalk  and  sand  in  junction,  to  the  corner  of  clay  and 
chalk;  all  the  length  of  the  wooded  ridge  he  had  reminders 
of  her  presence  and  his  priceless  chances;  and  still  the  stand- 
ard of  his  conduct  said  No,  while  his  heart  bled. 

He  felt  that  a  chance  had  been.  More  sagacious  than  Lady 
Dunstane,  from  his  not  nursing  a  wound,  he  divined,  in  the 
abruptness  of  Diana's  resolution  to  accept  a  suitor,  a  sober 
reason,  and  a  fitting  one,  for  the  wish  that  she  might  be  set- 
tled. And  had  he  spoken? — If  he  had  spoken  to  her  she 
might  have  given  her  hand  to  him,  to  a  dishonorable  brute! 
A  blissful  brute!  But  a  worse  than  donkey.  Yes,  his  prin- 
ciple was  right,  and  he  lashed  with  it,  and  prodded  with  it, 
drove  himself  out  into  the  sour  wilds  where  bachelordom  crops 


58  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

noxious  weeds  without  a  hallowing  luminary,  and  clung  to  it, 
bruised  and  bleeding  though  he  was. 

The  gentleness  of  Lady  Dunstane  soothed  him  during  the 
term  of  a  visit  that  was  rather  like  purgatory  sweetened  by 
angelical  tears.  He  was  glad  to  go,  wretched  in  having  gone. 
She  diverted  the  incessant  conflict  between  his  insubordinate 
self  and  his  castigating,  but  avowedly  sovereign,  principle. 
Away  from  her  he  was  the  victim  of  a  flagellation  so  dire  that 
it  almost  drove  him  to  revolt  against  the  lord  he  served,  and 
somehow  the  many  memories  at  Copsley  kept  away.  Sir 
Lukin,  when  speaking  of  Diana's  "engagement  to  that  fellow 
Warwick,"  exalted  her  with  an  extraordinary  enthusiasm,  ex- 
ceedingly hard  for  the  silly  beast  who  had  lost  her  to  bear. 
For  the  present  the  place  dearest  to  Eedworth  of  all  places  on 
earth  was  unendurable. 

Meanwhile  the  value  of  railway  investments  rose  in  the 
market,  fast  as  asparagus-heads  for  cutting;  a  circumstance 
that  added  stings  to  reflection.  Had  he  been  only  a  little 
bolder,  a  little  less  the  fanatical  devotee  of  his  rule  of  mascu- 
line honor,  less  the  slave  to  the  letter  of  success 

But  why  reflect  at  all?  Here  was  a  goodly  income  approach- 
ing, perhaps  a  seat  in  Parliament;  a  station  for  the  airing 
of  his  opinions — and  a  social  status  for  the  wife  now  denied  to 
him.  The  wife  was  denied  to  him;  he  could  conceive  of  no 
other.  The  tyrant-ridden,  reticent,  tenacious  creature  had 
thoroughly  wedded  her  in  mind;  her  view  of  things  had 
a  throne  beside  his  own,  even  in  their  differences.  He  per- 
ceived, agreeing  or  disagreeing,  the  motions  of  her  brain,  as 
he  did  with  none  other  of  women;  and  this  it  is  which  stamps 
character  on  her,  divides  her  from  them,  up-raises  and  en- 
spheres.    He  declined  to  live  with  any  other  of  the  sex. 

Before  he  could  hear  of  the  sort  of  man  Mr.  Warwick  was 
— a  perpetual  object  of  his  quest — the  bridal  bells  had  rung, 
and  Diana  Antonia  Merion  lost  her  maiden  name.  She  be- 
came the  Mrs.  Warwick  of  our  footballing  world. 

Why  she  married  she  never  told.  Possibly,  in  amazement 
at  herself  subsequently,  she  forgot  the  specific  reason.  That 
which  weighs  heavily  in  youth,  and  commits  us  to  desperate 
action,  will  be  a  trifle  under  older  eyes,  to  blunter  senses,  a 
more  enlightened  understanding.  Her  friend  Emma  probed 
for  the  reason  vainly.  It  was  partly  revealed  to  Eedworth 
by  guess-work  and  a  putting  together  of  pieces,  yet  quite  lunu- 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  59 

nously,  as  it  were  by  touch  of  tentacle-feelers,  one  evening 
that  he  passed  with  Sir  Lukin  Dunstane,  when  the  lachrymose 
ex-dragoon  and  son  of  Idlesse  had  rather  more  than  dined. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    COUPLE. 

Six  months  a  married  woman,  Diana  came  to  Copsley  to  in- 
troduce her  husband.  They  had  run  over  Italy;  "the  Italian 
Peninsula,"  she  quoted  him  in  a  letter  to  Lady  Dunstane;  and 
were  furnishing  their  London  house.  Her  first  letters  from 
Italy  appeared  to  have  a  little  bloom  of  sentiment.  Augustus 
was  mentioned  as  liking  this  and  that  in  the  land  of  beauty. 
He  patronized  art,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  hear  him  speak 
upon  pictures  and  sculptures;  he  knew  a  great  deal  about 
them.  "He  is  an  authority."  Her  humor  soon  began  to  play 
round  the  fortunate  man,  who  did  not  seem,  to  the  reader's 
mind,  to  bear  so  well  a  sentimental  clothing.  His  pride  was 
in  being  very  English  on  the  Continent,  and  Diana's  instances 
of  his  lofty  appreciations  of  the  garden  of  art  and  nature,  and 
statuesque  walk  through  it,  would  have  been  more  amusing 
if  her  friend  could  have  harmonized  her  idea  of  the  couple.  A 
description  of  "a  bit  of  a  wrangle  between  us"  at  Lucca,  where 
an  Italian  post-master,  on  a  journey  of  inspection,  claimed  a 
share  of  their  carriage  and  audaciously  attempted  entry,  was 
laughable,  but  jarred.  Would  she  some  day  lose  her  relish  for 
ridicule  and  see  him  at  a  distance?  He  was  generous,  Diana 
said;  she  saw  fine  qualities  in  him.  It  might  be  that  he  was 
lavish  on  his  bridal  tour.  She  said  he  was  unselfish,  kind, 
affable  with  his  equals;  he  was  cordial  to  the  acquaintances 
he  met.  Perhaps  his  worst  fault  was  an  affected  supercilious- 
ness before  the  foreigner,  not  uncommon  in  those  days.  "You 
are  to  know,  dear  Emmy,  that  we  English  are  the  aristocracy 
of  Europeans."  Lady  Dunstane  inclined  to  think  we  were; 
nevertheless,  in  the  mouth  of  a  "gentlemanly  official"  the 
frigid  arrogance  added  a  stroke  of  caricature  to  his  deport- 
ment. On  the  other  hand,  the  reports  of  him  gleaned  by  Sir 
Lukin  sounded  favorable.  He  was  not  taken  to  be  preter- 
naturally  stiff,  nor  bright,  but  a  ^oodish  sort  of  fellow;  good 


60  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

horseman,  good  shot,  good  character.  In  short,  the  average 
EngHshman,  excelling  as  a  cavalier,  a  slayer,  and  an  orderly 
subject.  That  was  a  somewhat  elevated  standard  to  the 
patriotic  Emma.  Only  she  would  never  have  stipulated  for 
an  average  to  espouse  Diana.  Would  he  understand  her, 
and  value  the  best  in  her?  Another  and  unanswered  ques- 
tion was.  How  could  she  have  condescended  to  wed  with  an 
average?  There  was  transparently  some  secret  not  confided 
to  her  friend. 

He  appeared.  Lady  Dunstane's  first  impression  of  him  re- 
curred on  his  departure.  Her  unanswered  question  drummed 
at  her  ears,  though  she  remembered  that  Tony's  art  in  lead- 
ing him  out  had  moderated  her  rigidly  judicial  summary  of 
the  union  during  a  greater  part  of  the  visit.  But  his  re- 
quiring to  be  led  out  was  against  him.  Considering  the  sub- 
jects, his  talk  was  passable.  The  subjects  treated  of  politics, 
pictures,  continental  travel,  our  manufactures,  our  wealth, 
and  the  reasons  for  it — excellent  reasons  well-weighed.  He 
was  handsome,  as  men  go;  rather  tall,  not  too  stout,  precise 
in  the  modern  fashion  of  his  dress,  and  the  pair  of  whiskers 
encasing  a  colorless  depression  up  to  a  long,  thin,  straight 
nose,  and  closed  lips  indicating  an  aperture.  The  contraction 
of  his  mouth  expressed  an  intelligence  in  the  attitude  of  the 
firmly  negative.  The  lips  opened  to  smile,  the  teeth  were 
faultless;  an  effect  was  produced,  if  a  cold  one — the  colder 
for  the  unparticipating  northern  eyes;  eyes  of  that  half 
cloud  and  blue  which  make  a  kind  of  hueless  gray,  and  are 
chiefly  striking  in  an  authoritative  stare.  Without  contra- 
dicting, for  he  was  exactly  polite,  his  look  signified  a  person 
conscious  of  being  born  to  command;  in  fine,  an  aristocrat 
among  the  "aristocracy  of  Europeans."  His  differences  of 
opinion  were  prefaced  by  a  "Pardon  me,"  and  pausing  smile 
of  the  teeth;  then  a  succinctly  worded  sentence  or  two,  a 
perfect  settlement  of  the  dispute.  He  disliked  argumenta- 
tion. He  -said  so,  and  Diana  remarked  it  of  him,  speaking  as 
a  wife  who  merely  noted  a  characteristic.  Inside  his  boun- 
dary he  had  neat  phrases,  opinions  in  packets.  Beyond  it, 
apparently,  the  world  was  void  of  any  particular  interest. 
Sir  Lukin,  whose  boundary  would  have  shown  a  narrower 
limitation  had  it  been  defined,  stood  no  chance  with  him. 
Tory  versus  Whig,  he  tried  a  wrestle,  and  was  thrown.  They 
agreed  on  the  topic  of  wine.    Mr.  Warwick  had  a  fine  taste 


DIANA  OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 


61 


in  wine.  Their  after-dinner  sittings  were  devoted  to  this 
and  the  alliterative  cognate  theme,  equally  dear  to  the  gal- 
lant ex-dragoon,  from  which  it  resulted  that  Lady  Dunstane 
received  satisfactory  information  in  a  man's  judgment  of  him. 
"Warwick  is  a  clever  fellow,  and  a  thorough  man  of  the  world, 
I  can  tell  you,  Emmy.''  Sir  Lukin  further  observed  that  he 
was  a  gentlemanly  fellow.  "A  gentlemanly  official!"  Diana's 
primary  dash  of  portraiture  stuck  to  him,  so  true  it  was!  As 
for  her,  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it.  Not  only  did  she 
strive  to  show  him  to  advantage  by  leading  him  out;  she 
played  second  to  him,  subserviently,  fondly;  she  quite  sub- 
merged herself,  content  to  be  dull  if  he  might  shine;  and  her 
talk  of  her  husband  in  her  friend's  blue-chamber  boudoir  of 
the  golden  stars,  where  they  had  discussed  the  world  and 
taken  counsel  in  her  maiden  days,  implied  admiration  of  his 
merits.  He  rode  superbly;  he  knew  Law;  he  was  prepared 
for  any  position;  he  could  speak  really  eloquently;  she  had 
heard  him  at  a  local  meeting.  And  he  loved  the  old  Cross- 
ways  almost  as  much  as  she  did.  "He  has  promised  me  he 
will  never  ask  me  to  sell  it,"  she  said,  with  a  simpleness  that 
could  hardly  have  been  acted. 

When  she  was  gone,  Lady  Dunstane  thought  she  had  worn 
a  mask,  in  the  natural  manner  of  women  trpng  to  make  the 
best  of  their  choice;  and  she  excused  her  poor  Tony  for  the 
artful  presentation  of  him  at  her  own  cost.  But  she  could 
not  excuse  her  for  having  married  the  man.  Her  first  and 
final  impression  likened  him  to  a  house  locked  up  and  empty; 
a  London  house  conventionally  furnished  and  decorated  by 
the  upholsterer,  and  empty  of  inhabitants.  How  a  brilliant 
and  beautiful  girl  could  have  committed  this  rashness  was 
the  perplexing  riddle;  the  knottier  because  the  man  was  idle. 
And  Diana  had  ambition;  she  despised  and  dreaded  idleness 
in  men.  Empty  of  inhabitants  even  to  the  ghost!  Both 
human  and  spiritual  were  wanting.  The  mind  contemplating 
him  became  reflectively  stagnant. 

I  must  not  be  unjust!  Lady  Dunstane  hastened  to  ex- 
claim at  a  whisper  that  he  had  at  least  proved  his  appreciation 
of  Tony,  whom  he  preferred  to  call  Diana,  as  she  gladly  re- 
membered; and  the  two  were  bound  together  for  a  moment 
warmly  by  her  recollection  of  her  beloved  Tony's  touching 
little  petition:  "You  will  invite  us  again?"  and  then  there 
had  flashed  in  Tony's  dear  dark  eyes  the  look  of  their  old  love 


eS  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

drowning.  They  were  not  to  b^  thought  of  separately.  She 
admitted  that  the  introduction  to  a  woman  of  her  friend's 
husband  is  crucially  trying  to  him;  he  may  well  show  worse 
than  he  is.  Yet  his  appreciation  of  Tony  in  espousing  her 
was  rather  marred  by  Sir  Lukin's  report  of  him  as  a  desper- 
ate admirer  of  beautiful  women.  It  might  be  for  her  beauty 
only,  not  for  her  spiritual  qualities!  At  present  he  did  not 
seem  aware  of  their  existence.  But,  to  be  entirely  just,  she 
had  hardly  exhibited  them  or  a  sign  of  them  during  the  first 
interview;  and,  sitting  with  his  hostess  alone,  he  had  seized 
the  occasion  to  say  that  he  was  the  happiest  of  men.  He  said 
it  with  the  nearest  approach  to  fervor  she  had  noticed.  Per- 
haps the  very  fact  of  his  not  producing  a  highly  favorable 
impression  should  be  set  to  plead  on  his  behalf.  Such  as  he 
was,  he  was  himself  no  simulator.  She  longed  for  Mr.  Eed- 
worth's  report  of  him. 

Her  compassion  for  Redworth's  feelings,  when  beholding 
the  woman  he  loved  another  man's  wife,  did  not  soften  the 
urgency  of  her  injunction  that  he  should  go  speedily,  and  see 
as  much  of  them  as  he  could.  "Because,"  she  gave  her 
reason,  "I  wish  Diana  to  know  she  has  not  lost  a  single  friend 
through  her  marriage,  and  is  only  one  the  richer." 

Eedworth  buckled  himself  to  the  task.  He  belonged  to 
the  class  of  his  countrymen  who  have  a  dungeon-vault  for 
feelings  that  should  not  be  suifered  to  cry  abroad,  and  into 
this  oubliette  he  cast  them,  letting  them  feed  as  they  might, 
or  perish.  It  was  his  heart  down  below,  and  in  no  voluntary 
musings  did  he  listen  to  it  to  sustain  the  thing.  Grimly 
lord  of  himself,  he  stood  emotionless  before  the  world.  Some 
worthy  fellows  resemble  him,  and  they  are  called  deep- 
hearted.  He  was  dungeon-deep.  The  prisoner  underneath 
might  clamor  and  leap;  none  heard  him  or  knew  of  him; 
nor  did  he  ever  view  the  day.  Diana's  frank,  "Ah,  Mr.  Eed- 
worth, how  glad  I  am  to  see  you!"  was  met  by  the  calmest 
formalism  of  the  wish  for  her  happiness.  He  became  a  guest 
at  her  London  house,  and  his  report  of  the  domesticity  there, 
and  notably  of  the  lord  of  the  house,  pleased  Lady  Dunstane 
more  than  her  husband's.  He  saw  the  kind  of  man  accur- 
ately, as  far  as  men  are  to  be  seen  on  the  surface;  and  she 
could  say  assentingly,  without  anxiety;  "Yes,  yes,"  to  his  re- 
marks upon  Mr.  Warwick,  indicative  of  a  man  of  capable 
head  in  worldly  affairs,  commonplace  beside  his  wife.     The 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 


/'  e) 


noble  gentleman  for  Diana  was  yet  unborn,  they  tacitly  agreed. 
Meantime  one  must  not  put  a  mortal  husband  to  the  fiery 
ordeal  of  his  wife's  deserts,  they  agreed  likewise.  "You  may 
be  sure  she  is  a  constant  friend,"  Lady  Dunstane  said  for  his 
comfort;  and  she  reminded  herself  subsequently  of  a  shade  of 
disappointment  at  his  imperturbable  rejoinder:  "I  could  cal- 
culate on  it."  For,  though  not  at  all  desiring  to  witness  the 
sentimental  fit,  she  wished  to  see  that  he  held  an  image  of 
Diana — surely  a  woman  to  kindle  poets  and  heroes,  the  princes 
of  the  race;  and  it  was  a  curious  perversity  that  the  two  men 
she  had  moved  were  merely  excellent,  emotionless,  ordinary 
men,  with  heads  for  business.  Elsewhere,  out  of  England, 
Diana  would  have  been  a  woman  for  a  place  in  song,  exalted 
to  the  skies.  Here  she  had  the  destiny  to  inflame  Mr.  Red- 
worth  and  Mr.  Warwick,  two  railway  directors,  bent  upon 
scoring  the  country  to  the  likeness  of  a  child's  lines  of  hop- 
scotch in  a  gravel-yard. 

As  with  all  invalids,  the  pleasure  of  living  backward  was 
haunted  by  the  tortures  it  evoked,  and  two  years  later  she 
recalled  this  outcry  against  the  Fates.  She  would  then  have 
prayed  for  Diana  to  inflame  none  but  such  men  as  those  two. 
The  original  error  was,  of  course,  that  rash  and  most  inexplica- 
ble marriage,  a  step  never  alluded  to  by  the  driven  victim  of 
it.  Lady  Dunstane  heard  rumors  of  dissensions.  Diana 
did  not  mention  them.  She  spoke  of  her  husband  as  unlucky 
in  railway  ventures,  and  of  a  household  necessity  for  money, 
nothing  further.  One  day  she  wrote  of  a  government  ap- 
pointment her  husband  had  received,  ending  the  letter:  "So 
there  is  the  end  of  our  troubles."  Her  friend  rejoiced,  and, 
afterward  looking  back  at  her  satisfaction,  saw  the  dire  be- 
ginning of  them. 

Lord  Dannisburgh's  name,  as  one  of  the  admirers  of  Mrs. 
Warwick,  was  dropped  once  or  twice  by  Sir  Lukin.  He  had 
dined  with  the  Warwicks,  and  met  the  eminent  member  of 
the  Cabinet  at  their  table.  There  is  no  harm  in  admiration, 
especially  on  the  part  of  one  of  a  crowd  observing  a  star. 
!N"o  harm  can  be  imputed  when  the  husband  of  a  beautiful" 
woman  accepts  an  appointment  from  the  potent  Minister 
admiring  her.  So  Lady  Dunstane  thought,  for  she  was  sure 
of  Diana  to  her  inmost  soul.  But  she  soon  perceived  in  Sir 
Lukin  that  the  old  dog- world  was  preparing  to  yelp  on  a  scent. 
He  of  his  nature  belonged  to  the  hunting  pack,  and,  with  a 


64  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

cordial  feeling  for  the  quarry,  lie  was  quite  with  his  world  in 
expecting  to  see  her  run,  and  readiness  to  join  the  chase.  No 
great  scandal  had  occurred  for  several  months.  The  world 
was  in  want  of  it;  and  he,  too,  with  a  very  cordial  feeling 
for  the  quarry,  piousty  hoping  she  would  escape,  already  had 
his  nose  to  ground,  collecting  testimony  in  the  track  of 
her.  He  said  little  to  his  wife,  but  his  world  was  getting  so 
noisy  that  he  could  not  help  half  pursing  his  lips,  as  with  the 
soft  whistle  of  an  innuendo  at  the  heels  of  it.  Eedworth  was 
in  America,  engaged  in  carving  up  that  hemisphere.  She  had 
no  source  of  information  but  her  husband's  chance  gossip; 
and  London  was  death  to  her;  and  Diana,  writing  faithfully 
twice  a  week,  kept  silence  as  to  Lord  Dannisburgh,  except  in 
naming  him  among  her  guests.  She  wrote  this,  which  might 
have  a  secret  personal  signification:  "We  women  are  the  verbs 
passive  of  the  alliance,  we  have  to  learn,  and  if  we  take  to 
activity,  with  the  best  intentions,  we  conjugate  a  frightful  dis- 
turbance. We  are  to  run  on  lines,  like  the  steam-trains,  or  we 
come  to  no  station,  dash  to  fragments.  I  have  the  misfortune 
to  know  I  was  born  an  active.     I  take  my  chance." 

Once  she  coupled  the  names  of  Lord  Larrian  and  Lord 
Dannisburgh,  remarking  that  she  had  a  fatal  attraction  for 
antiques. 

The  death  of  her  husband's  uncle  and  illness  of  his  aunt 
withdrew  her  to  The  Crossways,  where  she  remained  nursing 
for  several  months,  reading  diligently  as  her  letter  showed, 
and  watching  the  approaches  of  the  destroyer.  She  wrote  like 
her  former  self,  subdued  by  meditation  in  the  presence  of  that 
inevitable.  The  world  ceased  barking.  Lady  Dunstane 
could  suppose  Mr.  Warwick  to  have  now  a  reconciling  experi- 
ence of  his  wife's  noble  qualities.  He  probably  did  value 
them  more.  He  spoke  of  her  to  Sir  Lukin  in  London  with 
commendation.  "She  is  an  attentive  nurse."  He  inherited  a 
considerable  increase  of  income  when  he  and  his  wife  were  the 
sole  tenants  of  The  Crossways,  but,  disliking  the  house,  for 
reasons  hard  to  explain  by  a  man  previously  professing  to 
share  her  attachment  to  it,  he  wished  to  sell  or  let  the  place, 
and  his  wife  would  do  neither.  She  proposed  to  continue  liv- 
ing in  their  small  London  house  rather  than  be  cut  off  from 
The  Crossways,  which,  he  said,  was  ludicrous;  people  should 
live  up  to  their  position;  and  he  sneered  at  the  place,  and 
slightly  wounded  her,  for  she  was  open  to  a  wound  when  the 


DIANA   OP   THE   CR09SWAYS.  65 

cold  fire  of  a  renewed  attempt  at  warmth  between  them  was 
crackling  and  showing  bits  of  flame,  after  she  had  given  proof 
of  her  power  to  serve.  Service  to  himself  and  his  relatives 
affected  him.  He  deferred  to  her  craze  for  The  Crossways, 
and  they  lived  in  a  larger  London  house,  "up  to  their  posi- 
tion/^ which  means  ever  a  trifle  beyond  it,  and  gave  choice 
dinner-parties  to  the  most  eminent.  His  jealousy  slumbered. 
Having  ideas  of  a  seat  in  Parliament  at  this  period,  and  pre- 
ferment superior  to  the  post  he  held,  Mr.  Warwick  deemed  it 
sagacious  to  court  the  potent  patron  Lord  Dannisburgh  could 
be;  and  his  wife  had  his  interests  at  heart,  the  fork-tongued 
world  said.  The  cry  revived.  Stories  of  Lord  D.  and  Mrs. 
W.  whipped  the  hot  pursuit.  The  moral  repute  of  the  great 
Whig  lord  and  the  beauty  of  the  lady  composed  inflammable 
material. 

"Are  you  altogether  incautious?"  Lady  Dunstane  wrote 
to  Diana;  and  her  friend  sent  a  copious  reply:  "You  have 
the  fullest  right  to  ask  your  Tony  anything,  and  I  will  answer 
as  at  the  Judgment  bar.  You  allude  to  Lord  Dannisburgh. 
He  is  near  what  Dada's  age  would  have  been,  and  is,  I  think 
I  can  affirm,  next  to  my  dead  father  and  my  Emmy,  my  dear- 
est friend.  I  love  him.  I  could  say  it  in  the  streets  without 
shame;  and  you  do  not  imagine  me  shameless.  Whatever  his 
character  in  his  younger  days,  he  can  be  honestly  a  woman's 
friend,  believe  me.  I  see  straight  to  his  heart;  he  has  no  dis- 
guise; and,  unless  I  am  to  suppose  that  marriage  is  the  end 
of  me,  I  must  keep  him  among  my  treasures.  I  see  him  al- 
most daily;  it  is  not  possible  to  think  I  can  be  deceived;  and, 
as  long  as  he  does  me  the  honor  to  esteem  my  poor  portion 
of  brains  by  coming  to  me  for  what  he  is  good  enough  to  call 
my  counsel,  I  shall  let  the  world  wag  its  tongue.  Between 
ourselves,  I  trust  to  be  doing  some  good.  I  know  I  am  of  use 
in  various  ways.  'No  doubt  there  is  a  danger  of  a  woman's 
head  being  turned  when  she  reflects  that  a  powerful  Minister 
governing  a  kingdom  has  not  considered  her  too  insignificant 
to  advise  him;  and  I  am  sensible  of  it.  I  am,  I  assure  you, 
dearest,  on  my  guard  against  it.  That  would  not  attach  me 
to  him,  as  his  homely  friendliness  does.  He  is  the  most  amia- 
ble, cheerful,  benignant  of  men;  he  has  no  feeling  of  an 
enemy,  though  naturally  his  enemies  are  numerous  and 
venomous.  He  is  full  of  observation  and  humor.  How  he 
would  amuse  you!    In  many  respects  accord  with  you.    And 

6 


66  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

I  should  not  have  a  spark  of  jealousy.  Some  day  I  shall  beg 
permission  to  bring  him  to  Copsley,  At  present,  during  the 
Session,  he  is  too  busy,  as  you  know.  Me — his  'crystal  spring 
of  wisdom' — he  can  favor  with  no  more  than  an  hour  in  the 
afternoon  or  a  few  minutes  at  night.  Or  I  get  a  pencilled 
note  from  the  benches  of  the  House,  with  an  anecdote,  or  news 
of  a  Division.     I  am  sure  to  be  enlivened. 

"So  I  have  written  to  you,  fully,  simply,  frankly.  Have 
perfect  faith  in  your  Tony,  who  would,  she  vows  to  Heaven, 
die  rather  than  disturb  it  and  her  heart's  beloved." 

The  letter  terminated  with  one  of  Lord  Dannisburgh's  anec- 
dotes, exciting  to  merriment  in  the  season  of  its  freshness;  and 
a  postscript  of  information:  "Augustus  expects  a  mission — 
about  a  month;  uncertain  whether  I  accompany  him." 

Mr.  Warwick  departed  on  his  mission.  Diana  remained  in 
London.  Lady  Dunstane  wrote  entreating  her  to  pass  the 
month — her  favorite  time  of  the  violet  yielding  to  the  cowslip 
— at  Copsley.  The  invitation  could  not  be  accepted,  but  the 
next  day  Diana  sent  word  that  she  had  a  surprise  for  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday,  and  would  bring  a  friend  to  lunch,  if  Sir 
Lukin  would  meet  them  at  the  corner  of  the  road  in  the  valley 
leading  up  to  the  heights,  at  a  stated  hour. 

Lady  Dunstane  gave  the  listless  baronet  his  directions,  ob- 
serving: "It's  odd,  she  never  will  come  alone  since  her  mar- 
riage." 

"Queer!"  said  he  of  the  serenest  absence  of  conscience;  and 
that  there  must  be  something  not  entirely  right  going  on  he 
strongly  inclined  to  think. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  CRISIS. 

It  was  a  confirmed  suspicion  when  he  beheld  Lord  Dannis- 
burgh  on  the  box  of  a  four-in-hand,  and  the  peerless  Diana 
beside  him,  cockaded  lackeys  in  plain  livery  and  the  lady's 
maid  to  the  rear.  But  Lord  Dannisburgh's  visit  was  a  com- 
pliment, and  the  freak  of  his  driving  down  under  the  beams 
of  Aurora  on  a  sober  Sunday  morning  capital  fun;  so,  with  a 
gayety  that  was  kept  alive  for  the  invalid  Emma  to  partake  of 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  67 

it,  they  rattled  away  to  the  heights,  and  dimbed  them,  and 
Diana  rushed  to  the  arms  of  her  friend,  whispering  and  coo- 
ing for  pardon  if  she  startled  her,  guilty  of  a  little  whiff  of 
blarney.  Lord  Dannisburgh  wanted  so  much  to  be  intro- 
duced to  her,  and  she  so  much  wanted  her  to  know  him,  and 
she  hoped  to  be  graciously  excused  for  thus  bringing  them  to- 
gether, *^that  she  might  be  chorus  to  them!"  Chorus  was  a 
pretty  fiction  on  the  part  of  the  thrilling  and  topping  voice. 
She  was  the  very  radiant  Diana  of  her  earliest  opening  day, 
both  in  look  and  speech,  a  queenly  comrade,  and  a  spirit  leap- 
ing and  shining  like  a  mountain  water.  She  did  not  seduce, 
she  ravished.  The  judgment  was  taken  captive  and  flowed 
with  her.  As  to  the  prank  of  the  visit,  Emma  heartily  en- 
joyed it,  and  hugged  it  for  a  holiday  of  her  own;  and  doting 
on  the  beautiful,  dark-eyed,  fresh  creature,  who  bore  the  name 
of  the  divine  huntress,  she  thought  her  a  true  Dian  in  stature, 
step,  and  attributes,  the  genius  of  laughter  superadded.  None 
else  on  earth  so  sweetly  laughed,  none  so  spontaneously,  vic- 
toriously provoked  the  healthful  openness.  Her  delicious 
chatter,  and  her  museful  sparkle  in  listening,  equally  quick- 
ened every  sense  of  life.  Adorable  as  she  was  to  her  friend 
Emma  at  all  times,  she  that  day  struck  a  new  fountain  in 
memory.  And  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  great  lord's  admira- 
tion of  this  wonder.  One  could  firmly  believe  in  their  friend- 
ship and  his  winning  ideas  from  the  abounding  bubbling  well. 
A  recurrent  smile  beamed  on  his  face  when  hearing  and  ob- 
serving her.  Certain  dishes  provided  at  the  table  were  Diana's 
favorites,  and  he  relished  them,  asking  for  a  second  help,  and 
remarking  that  her  taste  was  good  in  that  as  in  all  things. 
They  lunched,  eating  like  boys.  They  walked  over  the 
grounds  of  Copsley,  and  into  the  lanes  and  across  the  meadows 
of  the  cowslip,  rattling,  chatting,  enlivening  the  frosty  air, 
happy  as  children  biting  to  the  juices  of  ripe  apples  off  the  tree. 
But  Tony  was  the  tree,  the  dispenser  of  the  rosy  gifts.  She  had 
a  moment  of  reflection,  only  a  moment,  and  Emma  felt  the 
pause  as  though  a  cloud  had  shadowed  them  and  a  spirit  had 
been  shut  away.  Both  spoke  of  their  happiness  at  the  kiss  of 
parting.  That  melancholy  note  at  the  top  of  the  wave  to 
human  hearts  conscious  of  its  enforced  decline  was  repeated 
by  them,  and  Diana's  eyelids  blinked  to  dismiss  a  tear. 

"You  have  no  troubles?"  Emma  said. 

"Only  the  pain  of  the  good-bye  to  my  beloved,"  said  Diana. 


68  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

"I  have  never  been  happier — ^never  shall  be!  Now  you  know 
him  you  think  with  me  ?  I  knew  you  would.  You  have  seen 
him  as  he  always  is — except  when  he  is  armed  for  battle. 
He  is  the  kindest  of  souls.  And  soul  I  say.  He  is  the  one 
man  among  men  who  gives  me  notions  of  a  soul  in  men." 

The  eulogy  was  exalted.  Lady  Dunstane  made  a  little 
mouth  for  Oh,  in  correction  of  the  transcendental  touch, 
though  she  remembered  their  foregone  conversations  upon 
men — strange  beings  that  they  are! — and  understood  Diana^s 
meaning. 

"Really!  really!  honor!"  Diana  emphasized  her  extrav- 
agant praise  to  print  it  fast.     "Hear  him  speak  of  Ireland." 

"Would  he  not  speak  of  Ireland  in  a  tone  to  catch  the' 
Irishwoman?" 

"He  is  past  thoughts  of  catching,  dearest.  At  that  age 
men  are  pools  of  fish,  or  what  you  will;  they  are  not  anglers. 
Next  year,  if  you  invite  us,  we  will  come  again." 

"But  you  will  come  to  stay  in  the  winter?" 

"Certainly.     But  I  am  speaking  of  one  of  my  holidays." 

They  kissed  fervently.  The  lady  mounted;  the  gray  and 
portly  lord  followed  her;  Sir  Lukin  flourished  his  whip,  and 
Emma  was  left  to  brood  over  her  friend's  last  words:  "One 
of  my  holidays."  Not  a  hint  to  the  detriment  of  her  husband 
had  passed.  The  stray  beam  balefully  illuminating  her  mar- 
riage slipped  from  her  involuntarily.  Sir  Lukin  was  trouble- 
some with  his  ejaculations  that  evening,  and  kept  speculating 
on  the  time  of  the  arrival  of  the  four-in-hand  in  London;  up- 
on which  he  thought  a  great  deal  depended.  They  had  driven 
out  of  town  early,  and  if  they  drove  back  late  they  would  not 
be  seen,  as  all  the  cacklers  were  sure  then  to  be  dressing  for 
dinner,  and  he  would  not  pass  the  clubs.  "I  could  not  sug- 
gest it,"  he  said.  "But  Dannisburgh's  an  old  hand.  But 
they  say  he  snaps  his  fingers  at  tattle  and  laughs.     Well,  it 

doesn't  matter  for  him,  perhaps,  but  a  game  of  two 

Oh!  it'll  be  all  right.  They  can't  reach  London  before  dusk. 
And  the  cat's  away." 

"It's  more  than  ever  incomprehensible  to  me  how  she  could 
have  married  that  man,"  said  his  wife. 

"I've  long  since  given  it  up,"  said  he. 

Diana  wrote  her  thanks  for  the  delightful  welcome,  telling 
of  her  drive  home  to  smoke  and  solitude,  with  a  new  host  of 
romantic  sensations  to  keep  her  company.    She  wrote  thrice 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  69 

in  the  week,  and  the  same  addition  of  one  to  the  ordinary 
number  next  week.  Then  for  three  weeks  not  a  line.  Sir 
Lukin  brought  news  from  London  that  Warwick  had  re- 
turned, nothing  to  explain  the  silence.  A  letter  addressed  to 
The  Crossways  was  likewise  unnoticed.  The  supposition  that 
they  must  be  visiting  on  a  round  appeared  rational;  but  many 
weeks  elapsed,  until  Sir  Lukin  received  a  printed  sheet  in  the 
superscription  of  a  former  military  comrade,  who  had  marked 
a  paragraph.  It  was  one  of  those  Journals,  now  barely  credi- 
ble, dedicated  to  the  putrid  of  the  upper  circle,  wherein  initials 
raised  sewer-lamps  and  Asmodeus  lifted  a  roof,  leering 
hideously.  Thousands  detested  it,  and  fattened  their  crops 
on  it.  Domesticated  beasts  of  superior  habits  to  the  common 
will  indulge  themselves  with  a  luxurious  roll  in  carrion,  for  a 
revival  of  their  original  instincts.  Society  w^as  largely  a  pur- 
chaser. The  ghastly  thing  was  dreaded  as  a  scourge,  hailed  as 
a  refreshment,  nourished  as  a  parasite.  It  professed  un- 
daunted honesty,  and  operated  in  the  fashion  of  the  worms 
bred  of  decay.  Success  was  its  boasted  Justification.  The 
animal  world,  when  not  rigorously  watched,  will  always  crown 
with  success  the  machine  supplying  its  appetites.  The  old 
dog-world  took  signal  from  it.  The  one-legged  devil-god 
waved  his  wooden  hoof,  and  the  creatures  in  view,  the  hunt 
was  uproarious.  Why  should  we  seem  better  than  we  are? 
Down  with  hypocrisy!  cried  the  censor  morum,  spicing  the 
lamentable  derelictions  of  this  and  that  great  person,  male  and 
female.  The  plea  of  corruption  of  blood  in  the  world,  to  ex- 
cuse the  public  chafing  of  a  grievous  itch,  is  not  less  old  than 
sin;  and  it  offers  a  merry  day  of  frisky  truant  running  to  the 
animal  made  unashamed  by  another  and  another  stripped, 
branded  and  stretched  fiat.  Sir  Lukin  read  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
W.  and  a  distinguished  peer  of  the  realm.  The  paragraph 
was  brief;  it  had  a  flavor.  Promise  of  more  to  come  pricked 
curiosity.  He  read  it  enraged,  feeling  for  his  wife;  and,  again 
indignant,  feeling  for  Diana.  His  third  reading  found  him 
out;  he  felt  for  both,  but  as  a  member  of  the  whispering 
world,  much  behind  the  scenes,  he  had  a  longing  for  the  prom- 
ised insinuations.  Just  to  know  what  they  could  say,  or  dared 
say.  The  paper  was  not  shown  to  Lady  Dunstane.  A  run  to 
London  put  him  in  the  tide  of  the  broken  dam  of  gossip. 
The  names  w^ere  openly  spoken  and  swept  from  mouth  to 
mouth  of  the  scandalmongers,  gathering  matter  as  they  flew. 


70  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

He  knocked  at  Diana's  door,  where  he  was  informed  that  the 
mistress  of  the  house  was  absent.  More  than  official  gravity 
accompanied  the  announcement.  Her  address  was  unknown. 
Sir  Lukin  thought  it  now  time  to  tell  his  wife.  He  began 
with  a  hesitating  circumlocution,  in  order  to  prepare  her  mind 
for  bad  news.  She  divined  immediately  that  it  concerned 
Diana,  and,  forcing  him  to  speak  to  the  point,  she  had  the 
story  jerked  out  to  her  in  a  sentence.     It  stopped  her  heart. 

The  chill  of  death  was  tasted  in  that  wavering  ascent  from 
oblivion  to  recollection.  Why  had  not  Diana  come  to  her? 
she  asked  herself,  and  asked  her  husband;  who,  as  usual,  was 
absolutely  unable  to  say.  Under  compulsory  squeezing  he 
would  have  answered  that  she  did  not  come  because  she  could 
not  fib  so  easily  to  her  bosom  friend;  and  this  he  thought  not- 
withstanding his  personal  experience  of  Diana's  generosity. 
But  he  had  other  personal  experiences  of  her  sex,  and  her  sex 
plucked  at  the  bright  star  and  drowned  it. 

The  happy  day  of  Lord  Dannisburgh's  visit  settled  in 
Emma's  belief  as  the  cause  of  Mr.  Warwick's  unpardonable 
suspicions  and  cruelty.  Arguing  from  her  own  sensations  of 
a  day  that  had  been  like  the  return  of  sweet  health  to  her 
frame,  she  could  see  nothing  but  the  loveliest  freakish  inno- 
cence in  Diana's  conduct;  and  she  recalled  her  looks,  her 
words,  every  fleeting  gesture,  even  to  the  ingenuousness  of  the 
noble  statesman's  admiration  of  her,  for  the  confusion  of  her 
unmanly  and  unworthy  husband.  And  Emma  was  neverthe- 
less a  thoughtful  person;  only  her  heart  was  at  the  head  of  her 
thoughts,  and  led  the  file,  whose  reasoning  was  accurate  on 
erratic  tracks.  All  night  her  heart  went  at  fever  pace.  She 
brought  the  repentant  husband  to  his  knees,  and  then  doubted, 
strongly  doubted,  whether  she  would,  whether  in  considera- 
tion for  her  friend,  she  could  intercede  with  Diana  to  forgive 
him.  In  the  morning  she  slept  heavily.  Sir  Lukin  had  gone 
to  London  early  for  further  tidings.  She  woke  about  midday, 
and  found  a  letter  on  her  pillow.  It  was  Diana's.  Then 
while  her  fingers  eagerly  tore  it  open,  her  heart,  the  champion 
rider  over-night,  sank.  It  needed  support  of  facts,  and  feared 
them;  not  in  distrust  of  that  dear  persecuted  soul,  but  be- 
cause the  very  bravest  of  hearts  is  of  its  nature  a  shivering  de- 
fender, sensitive  in  the  presence  of  any  hostile  array,  much 
craving  for  material  support,  until  the  mind  and  spirit  dis- 
place it,  depute  it  to  second  them  instead  of  leading. 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  ?1 

She  read  by  a  dull  November  fog-light  a  mixture  of  the 
dreadful  and  the  comforting,  and  dwelt  upon  the  latter  m 
abandonment,  hugged  it,  though  conscious  of  evil  and  the 
little  that  there  was  to  veritably  console. 

The  close  of  the  letter  struck  the  blow.     After  bluntly 
stating  that  Mr.  Warwick  had  served  her  with  a  process, 
and  that  he  had  no  case  without  suborning  witnesses,  Diana 
'"Said:  "But  I  leave  the  case,  and  him,  to  the  world.  Ireland, 
or  else  America — it  is  a  guiltless  kind  of  suicide  to  bury 
myself  abroad.    He  has  my  letters.     They  are  such  as  I  can 
own  to  you,  and  ask  you  to  kiss  me — and  kiss  me  when  you 
have  heard  all  the  evidence,  all  that  I  can  add  to  it,  kiss 
me.    You  know  me  too  well  to  think  I  would  ask  you  to  kiss 
criminal  lips.     But  I  cannot  face  the  world.     In  the  dock, 
yes.    Not  where  I  am  expected  to  smile  and  sparkle,  on  pain 
of  incurring  suspicion  if   I    show  a  sign   of    oppression.     I 
cannot  do  that.     I    see    myself  wearing  a  false  grin — your 
Tony!    No,  I  do  well  to  go.     This  is  my  resolution;   and  in 
consequence,  my  beloved!    my  only  truly  loved  on  earth!     I 
do  not  come  to  you,  to  grieve  you,  as  I  surely  should.     Nor 
would  it  soothe  me,  dearest.    This  will  be  to  you  the  best  of 
reasons.    It  could  not  soothe  me  to  see  myself  giving  pain  to 
Emma.     I  am  like  a  pestilence,  and  let  me  swing  away  to 
the  desert,  for  there  I  do  no  harm.     I  know  I  am  right.     I 
have  questioned  myself — it  is  not  cowardice.    I  do  not  quail. 
I  abhor  the  part  of  actress.    I  should  do  it  well — too  well; 
destroy  my  soul  in  the  performance.    Is  a  good  name  before 
such  a  world  as  this  worth  that  sacrifice?     A  convent  and 
self -quenching; — cloisters  would   seem  to  me  like  holy  dew. 
But  that  would  be  sleep,  and    I    feel    the    powers    of    life. 
Never  have  I  felt  them  so  mightily.    If  it  were  not  for  being 
called  on  to  act    and    mew,    I    would    stay,  fight,    meet  a 
bayonet-edge  of  charges  and  rebut  them.    I  have  my  natural 
weapons  and  my  cause.    It  must   be  confessed  that   I   have 
also   more   knowledge    of   men  and  the  secret  contempt — ^it 
must  be — the  best  of  them  entertain  for  us.     Oh!    and  we 
confirm  it  if  we  trust  them.    But  they  have  been  at  a  wicked 
school. 

"I  will  write.  From  whatever  place,  you  shall  have  let- 
ters, and  constant.  I  write  no  more  now.  In  my  present 
mood  I  find  no  alternative  between  raging  and  drivelling.    I 


72  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

am  henceforth  dead  to  the  world.    Fever  dead  to  Emma  till 
my   breath   is   gone — poor  flame!     I    blow   at    a   bed-room 
candle,  by  which  I  write  in  a  brown  fog,  and  behold  what  I 
am — though  not  even  serving  to  write  such  a  tangled  scrawl 
as  this.    I  am  of  no  mortal  service.    In  two  days  I  shall   be 
out  of  England.     Within  a  week  you  shall  hear  where.     I 
long  for  your  heart  on  mine,  your  dear  eyes.     You  have 
faith  in  me,  and  I  fly  from  you! — I  must  be  mad.     Yet  I. 
feel  calmly  reasonable.     I  know  that  this  is  the  thing  to  do. 
Some  years  hence  a  gray  woman  may  return,  to  hear  of  a 
butterfly  Diana,  that  had  her  day  and  disappeared.     Better 
than  a  mewing  and  courtesying  simulacrum  of  the  woman — 
I  drivel  again.    Adieu.    I  suppose  I  am  not  liable  to  capture 
and  imprisonment  until  the  day  when  my  name  is  cited  to 
appear.    I  have  left  London.    This  letter  and  I   quit  the 
scene   by   different   routes — I    would   they    were    one.     My 
beloved!  I  have  an  ache — I  think  I  am  wronging  you.    I  am 
not  mistress  of  myself,  and  do  as  something  within  me,  wiser 
than  I,  dictates.     You  will  write  kindly.    Write  your  whole 
heart.    It  is  not  compassion  I  want,  I  want  you.    I  can  bear 
stripes  from  you.     Let   me    hear    Emma's    voice — ^the    true 
voice.     This  running  away  merits  your  reproaches.     It  will 

look  like .    I  have  more  to  confess:   the  tigress  in   me 

wishes  it  were!  I  should  then  have  a  reckless  passion  to 
fold  me  about,  and  the  glory — ^infernal,  if  you  name  it  so, 
and  so  it  would  be — of  suffering  for  and  with  some  one  else. 
As  it  is,  I  am  utterly  solitary,  sustained  neither  from  above 
nor  below,  except  within  myself,  and  that  is  all  fire  and 
smoke,  like  their  new  engines.  I  kiss  this  miserable  sheet 
of  paper.  Yes,  I  judge  that  I  have  run  off  a  line — and  what 
a  line! — which  hardly  shows  a  trace  for  breathing  things  to 
follow  until  they  feel  the  transgression  in  wreck.  How  im- 
mensely nature  seems  to  prefer  men  to  women!  But  this 
paper  is  happier  than  the  writer. 

"Your  Tony." 

That  was  the  end.  Emma  kissed  it  in  tears.  They  had 
often  talked  of  the  possibility  of  a  classic  friendship  between 
women,  the  alliance  of  a  mutual  devotedness  men  choose  to 
doubt  of.  She  caught  herself  accusing  Tony  of  the  lapse 
from  friendship.  Hither  should  the  true  friend  have  flown 
unerringly. 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  73 

Tlie  blunt  ending  of  the  letter  likewise  dealt  a  wound. 
She  reperused  it,  perused  and  meditated.  The  flight  of  Mrs. 
Warwick!  She  heard  that  cry — fatal!  But  she  had  no 
means  of  putting  a  hand  on  her.  "Your  Tony."  The  cold- 
ness might  be  set  down  to  exhaustion:  it  might,  yet  her  not 
coming  to  her  friend  for  counsel  and  love  was  a  positive 
weight  in  the  indifferent  scale.  She  read  the  letter  back- 
wards, and  by  snatches  here  and  there;  many  perusals  and 
hours  passed  before  the  scattered  creature  exhibited  in  its 
pages  came  to  her  out  of  the  fl3'ing  threads  of  the  web  as  her 
living  Tony,  whom  she  loved  and  prized  and  was  ready  to 
defend  against  the  w^orld.  By  that  time  the  fog  had  lifted; 
she  saw  the  sky  on  the  borders  of  milky  cloudfolds.  Her 
invalid's  chill  sensitiveness  conceived  a  sympathy  in  the 
baring  heavens,  and  lying  on  her  sofa  in  the  drawing-room 
she  gained  strength  of  meditative  vision,  weak  though  she 
was  to  help,  through  ceasing  to  brood  on  her  wound  and 
herself.  She  cast  herself  into  her  dear  Tony's  feelings;  and 
thus  it  came  that  she  imagined  Tony  would  visit  The  Cross- 
ways, — where  she  kept  souvenirs  of  her  father,  his  cane,  and 
his  writing-desk,  and  a  precious  miniature  of  him  hanging 
above  it, — ^before  leaving  England  for  ever.  The  fancy 
sprang  to  certainty;  every  speculation  confirmed  it.  Had 
Sir  Lukin  been  at  home  she  would  have  despatched  him  to 
The  Crossw^ays  at  once.  The  west  wind  blew,  and  gave  her 
a  view  of  the  downs  beyond  the  weald  from  her  southern 
window.  She  thought  it  even  possible  to  drive  there  and 
reach  the  place,  on  the  chance  of  her  vivid  suggestion,  some 
time  after  nightfall;  but  a  w^alk  across  the  room  to  try  her 
forces  was  too  convincing  of  her  inability.  She  walked  with 
an  ebony  silver-mounted  stick,  a  present  from  Mr.  Eedworth. 
She  was  leaning  on  it  when  the  card  of  Thomas  Eedworth 
was  handed  to  her. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

IN  WHICH  IS  EXHIBITED  HOW  A  PRACTICAL  MAN  AND  A 
DIVINING  WOMAN  LEARN  TO  RESPECT 
ONE  ANOTHER. 

"You  see,  you  are  my  crutch,"  Lady  Dunstane  said    to 
him,  raising  the  stick  in  reminder  of  the  present. 

He  offered  his  arm  and  hurriedly  informed  her,  to  dispose 


74  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

of  dull  personal  matter,  that  he  had  just  landed.  She 
looked  at  the  clock.  "Lukin  is  in  town.  You  know  the 
song:  ^Alas!  I  scarce  can  go  or  creep,  While  Lukin  is 
away.^  I  do  not  doubt  you  have  succeeded  in  your  business 
over  there.  Ah!  I^ow  I  suppose  you  have  confidence  in 
your  success.  I  should  have  predicted  it  had  you  come  to 
me.'^  She  stood,  either  musing  or  in  weakness,  and  said 
abruptly:    "Will  you  object  to  lunching  at  one  o'clock?" 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  said  Eedworth.  She  had  sighed: 
her  voice  betrayed  some  agitation,  strange  in  so  serenely- 
minded  a  person. 

His  partial  acquaintance  with  the  Herculean  Sir  Lukin's 
reputation  in  town  inspired  a  fear  of  his  being  about  to 
receive  admission  to  the  distressful  confidences  of  the  wife, 
and  he  asked  if  Mrs.  Warwick  was  well.  The  answer 
sounded  ominous,  with  its  accompaniment  of  evident  pain: 
"I  think  her  health  is  good." 

Had  they  quarrelled?  He  said  he  had  not  heard  a  word 
of  Mrs.  Warwick  for  several  months. 

"I  heard  from  her  this  morning,"  said  Lady  Dunstane, 
and  motioned  him  to  a  chair  beside  the  sofa,  where  she  half 
reclined,  closing  her  eyes.  The  sight  of  tears  on  the  eye- 
lashes frightened  him.  She  roused  herself  to  look  at  the 
clock.  "Providence  or  accident,  you  are  here,"  she  said. 
"I  could  not  have  prayed  for  the  coming  of  a  truer  man. 
Mrs.  Warwick  is  in  great  danger.  .  .  .  You  know  our  love. 
She  is  the  best  of  me,  heart  and  soul.  Her  husband  has 
chosen  to  act  on  vile  suspicions;  baseless,  I  could  hold  my 
hand  in  the  fire  and  swear.  She  has  enemies,  or  the  jealous 
fury  is  on  the  man;  I  know  little  of  him.  He  has  commenced 
an  action  against  her.  He  will  rue  it.  But  she  ....  you 
understand  this  of  women  at  least;  they  are  not  cowards  in 
all  things!  but  the  horror  of  facing  a  public  scandal!  My 
poor  girl  writes  of  the  hatefulness  of  having  to  act  the  com- 
placent— put  on  her  accustomed  self!  She  would  have  to 
go  about,  a  mark  for  the  talkers,  and  behave  as  if  nothing 
were  in  the  air,  full  of  darts!  Oh,  that  general  whisper! 
It  makes  a  coup  demassue,  a  gale  to  sink  the  bravest  vessel, 
and  a  woman  must  preserve  her  smoothest  front;  chat,  smile, 

or  else Well,  she  shrinks  from  it.    I  should  too.     She 

is  leaving  the  country." 

"Wrong!"  cried  Eedworth, 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  75 

"Wrong,  indeed.  She  writes  that  in  two  days  she  will 
be  out  of  it.  Judge  her  as  I  do,  though  you  are  a  man,  I 
pray.  You  have  seen  the  hunted  hare.  It  is  our  education; 
we  have  something  of  the  hare  in  us  when  the  hounds  are 
full  cry.  Our  bravest,  our  best,  have  an  impulse  to  run. 
'By  this,  poor  Wat  far  off  upon  a  hill.'  Shakespeare  would 
have  the  divine  comprehension.  I  have  thought  all  round 
it,  and  come  back  to  him.  She  is  one  of  Shakespeare's 
women.  Another  character,  but  one  of  his  own:  another 
Hermione!  I  dream  of  him,  seeing  her  with  the  eye  of 
steady  flame.  The  bravest  and  best  of  us  at  bay  in  the 
world  need  an  eye  like  his  to  read  deep,  and  not  be  baffled 
by  inconsistencies." 

Insensibly  Eedworth  blinked.  His  consciousness  of  an 
exalted  compassion  for  the  lady  was  heated  by  these  flights 
of  advocacy  to  feel  that  he  was  almost  seated  beside  the 
sovereign  poet  thus  eulogized,  and  he  was  of  a  modest 
nature. 

"But  you  are  practical,"  pursued  Lady  Dunstane,  observ- 
ing signs  that  she  took  for  impatience.  "You  are  thinking 
of  what  can  be  done.  If  Lukin  were  here  I  would  send  him 
to  The  Crossways  without  a  moment's  delay,  on  the  chance, 
the  mere  chance:  it  shines  to  me!  If  I  were  only  a  little 
stronger!  I  fear  I  might  break  down,  and  it  would  be  unfair 
to  my  husband.  He  has  trouble  enough  with  my  premature 
infirmities  already.  I  am  certain  she  will  go  to  The  Cross- 
ways.  Tony  is  one  of  the  women  who  burn  to  give  last 
kisses  to  things  they  love.  And  she  has  her  little  treasures 
hoarded  there.  She  was  born  there.  Her  father  died  there. 
She  is  three  parts  Irish,  superstitious  in  affection.  I  know  her 
so  well.  At  this  moment  I  see  her  there.  If  not,  she  has 
grown  unlike  herself." 

"Have  you  a  stout  horse  in  the  stables?"  Eedworth  asked. 

"You  remember  the  mare  Bertha;  you  have  ridden  her." 

"The  mare  would  do,  and  better  than  a  dozen  horses."  He 
consulted  his  watch.  "Let  me  mount  Bertha;  I  engage  to 
deliver  a  letter  at  The  Crossways  to-night." 

Lady  Dunstane  half  inclined  to  act  hesitation  in  accepting 
the  aid  she  sought,  but  said,  "Will  you  find  your  way?" 

He  spoke  of  three  hours  of  daylight  and  a  moon  to  rise. 
"She  has  often  pointed  out  to  me  from  your  ridges  where 
Th^  Crossways  lies,  about  three  miles  from  the  Downs,  near 


76  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

a  village  named  Storling,  on  the  road  to  Brasted.  The  house 
has  a  small  plantation  of  firs  behind  it,  and  a  bit  of  river, 
rare  for  Sussex,  to  the  right.  An  old  straggling  red  brick 
house  at  Crossways,  a  stone's  throw  from  a  fingerpost  on  a 
square  of  green;  roads  to  Brasted,  London,  Wickford,  Riddle- 
hurst.  I  shall  find  it.  Write  what  you  have  to  say,  my  lady, 
and  confide  it  to  me.  She  shall  have  it  to-night,  if  she's 
where  you  suppose.  I'll  go,  with  your  permission,  and  take 
a  look  at  the  mare.  Sussex  roads  are  heavy  in  this  damp 
weather,  and  the  frost  coming  on  won't  improve  them  for  a 
tired  beast.    We  haven't  our  rails  laid  down  there  yet." 

"You  make  me  admit  some  virtues  in  the  practical,"  said 
Lady  Dunstane:  and  had  the  poor  fellow  vollied  forth  a  tale 
of  the  everlastingness  of  his  passion  for  Diana  it  would  have 
touched  her  far  less  than  his  exact  memory  of  Diana's  de- 
scription of  her  loved  birthplace. 

She  wrote: 

"I  trust  my  messenger  to  tell  you  how  I  hang  on  you.  I 
see  my  ship  making  for  the  rocks.  You  break  your  Emma's 
heart.  It  will  be  the  second  wrong  step.  I  shall  not  survive 
it.  The  threat  has  made  me  incapable  of  rushing  to  you, 
as  I  might  have  had  strength  to  do  yesterday.  I  am  shat- 
tered, and  I  wait  panting  for  Mr.  Redworth's  return  with 
you.  He  has  called,  by  accident,  as  we  say.  Trust  to  him. 
If  ever  Heaven  was  active  to  avert  a  fatal  mischance  it  is 
to-day.  You  will  not  stand  against  my  supplication.  It  is 
my  life  I  cry  for.  I  have  no  more  time.  He  starts.  He 
leaves  me  to  pray,  like  the  mother  seeing  her  child  on  the 
edge  of  the  cliff.  Come!  This  is  your  breast,  my  Tony! 
And  your  soul  warns  you  it  is  right  to  come.  Do  rightly. 
Scorn  other  counsel,  the  coward's.  Come  with  our  friend, 
the  one  man  known  to  me  who  can  be  a  friend  of  women. 

''Your  Emma." 

Redworth  was  in  the  room.  "The  mare'll  do  it  well,"  he 
said.  "She  has  had  her  feed,  and  in  five  minutes  will  be 
saddled  at  the  door." 

"But  you  must  eat,  dear  friend,"  said  the  hostess. 

"I'll  munch  at  a  packet  of  sandwiches  on  the  way.  There 
seems  a  chance,  and  the  time  for  lunching  may  miss  it." 

"You  understand     .     ,     ,  ?" 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  77 

"Everything,  Infancy." 

"If  she  is  there  !'^ 

"One  break  in  the  run  will  turn  her  back." 

The  sensitive  invalid  felt  a  blow  in  his  following  up  the 
simile  of  the  hunted  hare  for  her  friend;,  but  it  had  a  promise 
of  hopefulness.  And  this  was  all  that  could  be  done  by 
earthly  agents,  under  direction  of  spiritual,  as  her  imagina- 
tion encouraged  her  to  believe. 

She  saw  him  start,  after  fortifying  him  with  a  tumbler  of 
choice  Bordeaux,  thinking  how  Tony  would  have  said  she 
was  like  a  lady  arming  her  knight  for  battle  On  the  back 
of  the  mare  he  passed  her  window,  after  lifting  his  hat,  and 
he  thumped  at  his  breast-pocket,  to  show  her  where  the 
letter  housed  safely.  The  packet  of  provision  bulged  on  his 
hip,  absurdly  and  blessedly  to  her  sight,  not  unlike  the  man, 
in  his  combination  of  robust  serviceable  qualities,  as  she  re- 
flected during  the  later  hours,  until  the  sun  fell  on  smoulder- 
ing November  woods;  and  sensations  of  the  frost  he  foretold 
bade  her  remember  that  he  had  gone  forth  riding  like  a 
huntsman.  His  greatcoat  lay  on  a  chair  in  the  hall,  and  his 
traveling-bag  was  beside  it.  He  had  carried  it  up  from  the 
valley,  expecting  hospitality,  and  she  had  sent  him  forth 
half-naked  to  weather  a  frosty  November  night!  She  called 
in  the  groom,  whose  derision  of  a  greatcoat  for  any  gentle- 
man upon  Bertha,  meaning  work  for  the  mare,  appeased  her 
remorsefulness.  Brisby,  the  groom,  reckoned  how  long  the 
mare  would  take  to  do  the  distance  to  Storling,  with  a  rider 
like  Mr.  Eedworth  on  her  back.  By  seven,  Brisby  calculated, 
Mr.  Redworth  would  be  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  Three 
Kavens  Inn,  at  Storling,  when  the  mare  would  have  a  decent 
grooming,  and  Mr.  Redworth  was  not  the  gentleman  to  let 
her  be  fed  out  of  his  eye.  More  than  that,  Brisby  had  some 
acquaintance  with  the  people  of  the  inn.  He  begged  to  in- 
form her  ladyship  the  he  was  half  a  Sussex  man,  though 
not  exactly  born  in  the  county;  his  parents  had  removed  to 
Sussex  after  the  great  event;  and  the  Downs  were  his  first 
field  of  horse-exercise,  and  no  place  in  the  world  was  like 
them,  fair  weather  or  foul,  summer  or  winter,  and  snow  ten 
feet  deep  in  the  gullies.  The  grandest  air  in  England,  he 
had  heard  say.  His  mistress  kept  him  to  the  discourse,  for 
the  comfort  of  hearing  hard  bald  matter-of-fact;  and  she 
was  amused  and  rebuked  by  his  assumption  that  she  must 


78  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

be  entertaining  an  anxiety  about  master's  favorite  mare. 
But,  ah!  that  Diana  had  delayed  in  choosing  a  mate;  had 
avoided  her  disastrous  union  with  perhaps  a  more  imposing 
man,  to  see  the  true  beauty  of  masculine  character  in  Mr. 
Redworth,  as  he  showed  himself  to-day.  How  could  he  have 
doubted  succeeding?  One  grain  more  of  faith  in  his  energy 
and  Diana  might  have  been  mated  to  the  right  husband  for 
her — an  open-minded  clear-faced  English  gentleman.  Her 
speculative  ethereal  mind  clung  to  bald  matter-of-fact  to- 
day. She  would  have  vowed  that  it  was  the  sole  potentially 
horoical.  Even  Brisby  partook  of  the  reflected  rays,  and  he 
was  very  benevolently  considered  by  her.  She  dismissed 
him  only  when  his  recounting  of  the  stages  of  Bertha's 
journey  began  to  fatigue  her  and  deaden  the  medical  efficacy 
of  him  and  his  like.  Stretched  on  the  sofa  she  watched  the 
early  sinking  sun  in  south-western  cloud,  and  the  changes 
from  saffron  to  intensest  crimson,  the  crown  of  a  November 
evening,  and  one  of  frost. 

Redworth  struck  on  a  southward  line  from  the  chalk- 
ridge  to  sand,  where  he  had  a  pleasant  footing  in  familiar 
country,  under  beeches  that  browned  the  ways,  along  beside 
a  meadow-brook  fed  by  the  heights,  through  pines  and  across 
deep  sand-ruts  to  full  view  of  weald  and  downs.  Diana  had 
been  with  him  here  in  her  maiden  days.  The  colored  back 
of  a  coach  put  an  end  to  that  dream.  He  lightened  his 
pocket,  surveying  the  land  as  he  munched.  A  favorable  land 
for  rails:  and  she  had  looked  over  it;  and  he  was  now  be- 
coming a  wealthy  man:  and  she  was  a  married  woman  strain- 
ing the  leash.  His  errand  would  not  bear  examination,  it 
seemed  such  a  desperate  long  shot.  He  shut  his  inner  vision 
on  it,  and  pricked  forward.  When  the  burning  sunset  shot 
waves  above  the  Juniper  and  yews  behind  him,  he  was  far 
on  the  weald,  trotting  down  an  interminable  road.  That 
the  people  opposing  railways  were  not  people  of  business 
was  his  reflection,  and  it  returned  persistently:  for  practical 
men,  even  the  most  devoted  among  them,  will  think  for  them- 
selves; their  army,  which  is  the  rational,  calls  them  to  its 
banners,  in  opposition  to  the  sentimental;  and  Redworth 
joined  it  in  the  abstract,  summoning  the  horrible  state  of  the 
roads  to  testify  against  an  enemy  wanting  almost  in  common 
humaneness.  A  slip  of  his  excellent  stepper  in  one  of  the  half- 
frozen  pits  of  the  highway  was  the  principal  cause  of  his 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  79 

confusion  of  logic;  she  was  half  on  her  knees.  Beyond 
the  market-town  the  roads  were  so  bad  that  he  quitted  them, 
and  with  the  indifference  of  an  engineer  struck  a  line  of  his 
own  south-eastward  over  fields  and  ditches,  favored  by  a 
round  horizon  moon  on  his  left.  So  for  a  couple  of  hours  he 
went  ahead  over  rolling  fallow  land  to  the  meadow-flats  and 
a  pale  shining  of  freshets;  then  hit  on  a  lane  skirting  the 
w^ater,  and  reached  an  amphibious  village;  five  miles  from 
Sterling,  he  was  informed,  and  a  clear  traverse  of  lanes,  not 
to  be  mistaken,  "if  he  kept  a  sharp  eye  open."  The  sharp- 
ness of  his  eye  was  divided  between  the  sword-belt  of  the 
starry  Hunter  and  the  shifting  lanes  that  zig-zagged  his 
course  below.  The  downs  were  softly  illumined;  still  it 
amazed  him  to  think  of  a  woman  like  Diana  Warwick  having 
an  attachment  to  this  district,  so  hard  of  yield,  mucky,  fea- 
tureless, fit  but  for  the  rails  she  sided  with  her  friend  in  de- 
testing. Eeasonable  women,  too!  The  moon  stood  high  on 
her  march  as  he  entered  Sterling.  He  led  his  good  beast  to 
the  stables  of  The  Three  Eavens,  thanking  her  and  caressing 
her.  The  ostler  conjectured,  from  the  look  of  the  mare,  that 
he  had  been  out  with  the  hounds  and  lost  his  way.  It  ap- 
peared to  Redworth  singular  that,  near  the  ending  of  a  wild- 
goose  chase,  his  plight  was  pretty  well  described  by  the  fellow. 
However,  he  had  to  knock  at  the  door  of  The  Crossways  now, 
in  the  silent  night-time,  a  certainly  empty  house,  to  his  fancy. 
He  fed  on  a  snack  of  cold  meat  and  tea,  standing,  and  set 
forth,  clearly  directed,  "if  he  kept  a  sharp  eye  open."  Hither- 
to he  had  proved  his  capacity,  and  he  rather  smiled  at  the 
repetition  of  the  formula  to  him,  of  all  men.  A  turning  to  the 
right  was  taken,  one  to  the  left,  and  through  the  churchyard, 
out  of  the  gate,  round  to  the  right,  and  on.  By  this  route, 
after  an  hour,  he  found  himself  passing  beneath  the  bare 
chestnuts  of  the  churchyard  wall  of  Sterling,  and  the  sparkle 
of  the  edges  of  the  dead  chestnut-leaves  at  his  feet  reminded 
him  of  the  very  ideas  he  had  entertained  when  treading  them. 
The  less  of  an  hour  strung  him  to  pursue  the  chase  in  earnest, 
and  he  had  a  beating  of  the  heart  as  he  thought  that  it  might 
be  serious.  He  recollected  thinking  it  so  at  Copsley.  The 
long  ride  and  nightfall,  with  nothing  in  view,  had  obscured 
his  mind  to  the  possible  behind  the  thick  obstruction  of  the 
probable;  again  the  possible  waved  its  marsh-light.  To  help 
in  saving  her  from  a  fatal  step,  supposing  a  dozen  combina- 


BO  DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

tions  of  the  conditional  mood,  became  his  fixed  object,  since 
here  he  was — of  that  there  was  no  doubt;  and  he  was  not 
here  to  play  the  fool  though  the  errand  was  foolish.  He  en- 
tered the  churchyard,  crossed  the  shadow  of  the  tower,  and 
hastened  along  the  path,  fancying  he  beheld  a  couple  of  figures 
vanishing  before  him.  He  shouted;  he  hoped  to  obtain  di- 
rections from  these  natives:  the  moon  was  bright,  the  grave- 
stones legible;  but  no  answer  came  back,  and  the  place  ap- 
peared to  belong  entirely  to  the  dead.  "I've  frightened 
them,"  he  thought.  They  left  a  queerish  sensation  in  his 
frame.  A  ride  down  to  Sussex  to  see  ghosts  would  be  an  odd 
experience;  but  an  undigested  dinner  of  tea  is  the  very 
grandmother  of  ghosts;  and  he  accused  it  of  confusing  him, 
sight  and  mind.  Out  of  the  gate;  now  for  the  turning  to  the 
right,  and  on.  He  turned.  He  must  have  previously  turned 
wrongly  somewhere,  and  where?  A  light  in  a  cottage  invited 
him  to  apply  for  the  needed  directions.  The  door  was  opened 
by  a  woman,  who  had  never  heard  tell  of  The  Crossways,  nor 
had  her  husband,  nor  any  of  the  children  crowding  round 
them.  A  voice  within  ejaculated:  "Crassways!"  and  soon 
upon  the  grating  of  a  chair,  an  old  man,  whom  the  woman 
named  her  lodger,  by  way  of  introduction,  presented  himself 
with  his  hat  on,  saying:  "I  knows  the  spot  they  calls  Crass- 
ways,"  and  he  led.  Redworth  understood  the  intention  that 
a  job  was  to  be  made  of  it,  and,  submitting,  said:  "To  the 
right,  I  think."  He  was  bidden  to  come  along,  if  he  wanted 
"they  Crassways,"  and  from  the  right  they  turned  to  the 
left,  and  further  sharp  round,  and  on  to  a  turn,  where  the  old 
man,  otherwise  incommunicative,  said:  "There,  down  thik 
theer  road,  and  a  post  in  the  middle." 

"I  want  a  house,  not  a  post!"  roared  Redworth,  spying  a 
bare  space. 

The  old  man  despatched  a  finger  traveling  to  his  nob. 
"Naw,  there's  ne'er  a  house.  But  that's  crassways  for  four 
roads,  if  it's  crassways  you  wants." 

They  journeyed  backwards.  They  were  in  such  a  maze  of 
lanes  that  the  old  man  was  master,  and  Redworth  vowed  to 
be  rid  of  him  at  the  first  cottage.  This,  however,  they  were 
long  in  reaching,  and  the  old  man  was  promptly  through  the 
garden-gate,  hailing  the  people  and  securing  information  be- 
fore Redworth  could  well  hear.     He  smiled  at  the  dogged 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  81 

astuteness  of  a  dense-headed  old  creature  determined  to 
establish  a  claim  to  his  fee.  They  struck  a  lane  sharp  to 
the  left. 

"You're  Sussex?"  Redworth  asked  him,  and  was  answered: 
"Naw;   the  Sheers.'' 

Emerging  from  deliberation,  the  old  man  said:  "Ah'm  a 
Hampshireman." 

"A  capital  county!" 

"Heigh!"    The  old  man  heaved  his  chest.     "Once!" 

"Why,  what  has  happened  to  it?" 

"Once  it  were  a  capital  county,  I  say.  Hah!  you  ask  me 
what  have  happened  to  it.  You  take  and  go  and  look  at  it 
now.  And  down  heer'll  be  no  better  soon,  I  tells  'em. 
When  ah  was  a  boy,  old  Hampshire  was  a  proud  country, 
wi'  the  old  coaches  and  the  old  squires,  and  harvest  homes, 
and  Christmas  merryings.  Cutting  up  the  land!  There's 
no  pride  in  livin'  theer,  nor  anywhere,  as  I  sees,  now." 

"You  mean  the  railways." 

"It's  the  Devil  come  up  and  abroad  ower  all  England!" 
exclaimed  the  melancholy  ancient  patriot. 

A  little  cheering  was  tried  on  him,  but  vainly.  He  saw 
with  unerring  distinctness  the  triumph  of  the  Foul  Poten- 
tate, nay  his  personal  appearance  "in  they  theer  puffin'  en- 
gines." The  country  which  had  produced  Andrew  Hedger, 
as  he  stated  his  name  to  be,  would  never  show  the  same  old 
cricketing  commons  it  did  when  he  was  a  boy.  Old  England, 
he  declared,  was  done  for. 

When  Eedworth  applied  to  his  watch  under  the  brilliant 
moonbeams  he  discovered  that  he  had  been  listening  to  this 
natural  outcry  of  a  decaying  and  shunted  class  full  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  and  The  Crossways  was  not  in  sight. 
He  remonstrated.  The  old  man  plodded  along.  "We  must 
do  as  we're  directed,"  he  said. 

Further  walking  brought  them  to  a  turn.  Any  turn 
seemed  hopeful.  Another  turn  offered  the  welcome  sight 
of  a  blazing  doorway  on  a  rise  of  ground  off  the  road.  Ap- 
proaching it,  the  old  man  requested  him  to  "bide  a  bit,"  and 
stalked  the  ascent  at  long  strides.  A  vigorous  old  fellow. 
Eedworth  waited  below,  observing  how  he  joined  the  group 
at  the  lighted  door,  and,  as  it  was  apparent,  put  his  question 
of  the  whereabout  of  The  Crossways.  Finally,  in  extreme 
impatience,  he  walked  up  to  the  grpup  of  spectators.      They 


S2  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

were  all,  and  Andrew  Hedger  among  them,  the  most  entranced 
and  profoundly  reverent,  observing  the  dissection  of  a  pig. 

Unable  to  awaken  his  hearing,  Redworth  jogged  his  arm, 
and  the  shake  was  ineffective  until  it  grew  in  force. 

"I've  no  time  to  lose;  have  they  told  you  the  way?" 

Andrew  Hedger  yielded  his  arm.  He  slowly  withdrew  his 
intent  fond  gaze  from  the  fair  outstretched  white  carcass,  and 
with  drooping  eyelids  he  said:  "Ah  could  eat  hog  a  solid 
hower!" 

He  had  forgotten  to  ask  the  way,  intoxicated  by  the  aspect 
of  the  pig;  and  when  he  did  ask  it  he  was  hard  of  under- 
standing, given  wholly  to  his  last  glimpses. 

Redworth  got  the  directions.  He  would  have  dismissed 
Mr.  Andrew  Hedger,  but  there  was  no  doing  so.  "I'll  show 
ye  on  to  the  Crossways  House,"  the  latter  said,  implying  that 
he  had  already  earned  something  by  showing  him  the  Cross- 
ways  post. 

"Hog's  my  feed,"  said  Andrew  Hedger.  The  gastric 
springs  of  eloquence  moved  him  to  discourse,  and  he  un- 
burdened himself  between  succulent  pauses.  "They've 
killed  him  early.  He's  fat;  and  he  might  ha'  been  fatter. 
But  he's  fat.  They've  got  their  Christmas  ready,  that  they 
have.  Lord!  you  should  see  the  chitterlings,  and  the  sau- 
sages hung  up  to  and  along  the  beams.  That's  a  crown  for 
any  dwellin'!  They  runs  'em  round  the  top  of  the  room — 
it's  like  a  May-day  wreath  in  old  times.  Home-fed  hog! 
They've  a  treat  in  store,  they  have.  And  snap  your  fingers 
at  the  world  for  many  a  long  day.  And  the  hams!  They 
cure  their  own  hams  at  that  house.  Old  style!  That's  what 
I  say  of  a  hog.  He's  good  from  end  to  end,  and  beats  a 
Christian  hollow.     Everybody  knows  it  and  owns  it." 

Redworth  was  getting  tired.  In  sympathy  with  current  con- 
versation, he  said  a  word  for  the  railways;  they  would  cer- 
tainly make  the  flesh  of  swine  cheaper,  bring  a  heap  of  hams 
into  the  market.  But  Andrew  Hedger  remarked  with  con- 
tempt that  he  had  not  much  opinion  of  foreign  hams;  nobody 
knew  what  they  fed  on.  Hog,  he  said,  would  feed  on  any- 
thing, where  there  was  no  choice — they  had  wonderful 
stomachs  for  food.  Only,  when  they  had  a  choice,  they  left 
the  worse  for  last,  and  home-fed  filled  them  with  stulf  to 
make  good  meat  and  fat — "what  we  calls  prime  bacon."  As 
it  is  not  right  to  damp  a  native  enthusiasm,  Redworth  let 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  83 

him  dilate  on  his  theme,  and  mused  on  his  boast  to  eat  hog 
a  solid  hour,  which  roused  some  distant  classic  recollection — 
an  odd  jumble. 

They  crossed  the  wooden  bridge  of  a  flooded  stream. 

"Now  ye  have  it,"  said  the  hog-worshiper;  "that  may  be 
the  house,  I  reckon." 

A  dark  mass  of  building,  with  the  moon  behind  it,  shining 
in  spires  through  a  mound  of  firs,  met  Eedworth's  gaze.  The 
windows  all  were  blind,  no  smoke  rose  from  the  chimneys. 
He  noted  the  dusky  square  of  green,  and  the  finger-post  sig- 
naling the  center  of  the  four  roads.  Andrew  Hedger  re- 
peated that  it  was  The  Crossways  house,  ne'er  a  doubt. 
Redworth  paid  him  his  expected  fee,  whereupon  Andrew, 
shouldering  off,  wished  him  a  hearty  good  night,  and  forth- 
with departed  at  high  pedestrian  pace,  manifestly  to  have  a 
concluding  look  at  the  beloved  anatomy. 

There  stood  the  house.  Absolutely  empty!  thought  Eed- 
worth.  The  sound  of  the  gate-bell  he  rang  was  like  an  echo 
to  him.  The  gate  was  unlocked.  He  felt  a  return  of  his 
queer  churchyard  sensation  when  walking  up  the  garden- 
path,  in  the  shadow  of  the  house.  Here  she  was  bom;  here 
her  father  died;  and  this  was  the  station  of  her  dreams,  as 
a  girl  at  school  near  London  and  in  Paris.  Her  heart  Tras 
here.  He  looked  at  the  windows  facing  the  downs  with  dead 
eyes.  The  vivid  idea  of  her  was  a  phantom  presence,  and  cold, 
assuring  him  that  the  bodily  Diana  was  absent.  Had  Lady 
Dunstane  guessed  rightly  he  might  perhaps  have  been  of 
service! 

Anticipating  the  blank  silence,  he  rang  the  house-bell. 
It  seemed  to  set  wagging  a  weariful  tongue  in  a  corpse.  The 
bell  did  its  duty  to  the  last  note,  and  one  thin  revival  stroke, 
for  a  finish,  as  in  days  when  it  responded  livingly  to  the 
guest.  He  pulled,  and  had  the  reply,  just  the  same,  with  the 
faint  terminal  touch,  resembling  exactly  a  "There!"  at  the 
close  of  a  voluble  delivery  in  the  negative.  Absolutely 
empty.  He  pulled  and  pulled.  The  bell  wagged,  wagged. 
This  had  been  a  house  of  a  witty  host,  a  merry  girl,  junketing 
guests;  a  house  of  hilarious  thunders,  lightnings  of  fun  and 
fancy.  Death  never  seemed  more  voiceful  than  in  that  wag- 
ging of  the  bell. 

For  conscience'  sake,  as  became  a  trusty  emissary,  he 
walked  round  to  the  back  of  the  house,  to  verify  the  total 


$4  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

emptiness.  His  apprehensive  despondency  had  said  that  it 
was  absolutely  empty,  but  upon  consideration  he  supposed 
the  house  must  have  some  guardian;  likely  enough  an  old 
gardener  and  his  wife,  lost  in  deafness  double-shotted  by 
sleep!  There  was  no  sign  of  them.  The  night  air  waxed 
sensibly  crisper.  He  thumped  the  back-doors.  Blank  hol- 
lowness  retorted  on  the  blow.  He  banged  and  kicked.  The 
violent  altercation  with  wood  and  wall  lasted  several  min- 
utes, ending  as  it  had  begun.  Flesh  may  worry,  but  is  sure 
to  be  worsted  in  such  an  argument. 

"Well,  my  dear  lady!" — Redworth  addressed  Lady  Dun- 
stane  aloud,  while  driving  his  hands  into  his  pockets  for 
warmth — "weVe  done  what  we  could.  The  next  best  thing 
is  to  go  to  bed  and  see  what  morning  brings  us." 

The  temptation  to  glance  at  the  wild  divinings  of  dreamy- 
witted  women  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  practical  man 
was  aided  by  the  intense  frigidity  of  the  atmosphere  in  lead- 
ing him  to  criticize  a  sex  not  much  used  to  the  exercise  of 
brains.  "And  they  hate  railways!"  He  associated  them, 
in  the  matter  of  intelligence,  with  Andrew  Hedger  and  com- 
pany. They  sank  to  the  level  of  the  temperature  in  his 
esteem — as  regarded  their  intellects.  He  approved  their 
warmth  of  heart.  The  nipping  of  the  victim's  toes  and  finger- 
tips testified  powerfully  to  that. 

Round  to  the  front  of  the  house  at  a  trot,  he  stood  in 
moonlight.  Then,  for  involuntarily  he  now  did  everything 
running,  with  a  dash  up  the  steps  he  seized  the  sullen  pen- 
dent bell-handle,  and  worked  it  pumpwise,  till  he  perceived 
a  smaller  bell-knob  beside  the  door,  at  which  he  worked 
piston-wise.  Pump  and  piston,  the  hurly-burly  and  the 
tinkler  created  an  alarm  to  scare  cat  and  mouse  and  Cardinal 
spider,  all  that  run  or  weave  in  desolate  houses,  with  the 
good  result  of  a  certain  degree  of  heat  to  his  frame.  He 
ceased,  panting.  No  stir  within,  nor  light.  That  white 
stare  of  windows  at  the  moon  was  undisturbed. 

The  downs  were  like  a  wavy  robe  of  shadowy  gray  silk.  No 
wonder  that  she  had  loved  to  look  on  them! 

And  it  was  no  wonder  that  Andrew  Hedger  enjoyed  prime 
bacon.  Bacon  frizzling,  fat  rashers  of  real  home-fed  on  the 
fire — ^none  of  your  foreign — suggested  a  genial  refreshment 
and  resistance  to  antagonistic  elements.  Nor  was  it,  grant- 
ing health,   granting   a   sharp   night — the   temperature    at 


DIANA   OF    THE   CROSSWAYS.  85 

least  fifteen  below  freezing-point — an  excessive  boast  for  a 
man  to  say  he  could  go  on  eating  for  a  solid  hour. 

These  were  notions  darting  through  a  half-nourished  gen- 
tleman nipped  in  the  frame  by  a  severely  frosty  night. 
Truly  a  most  beautiful  night!  She  would  have  delighted  to 
see  it  here.  The  downs  were  like  floating  islands,  like  fairy- 
laden  vapors;  solid,  as  Andrew  HedgePs  hour  of  eating; 
visionary,  as  too  often  his  desire. 

Redworth  muttered  to  himself,  after  taking  the  picture 
of  the  house  and  surrounding  country  from  the  sward,  that 
he  thought  it  about  the  sharpest  night  he  had  ever  en- 
countered in  England.  He  was  cold,  hungry,  dispirited, 
and  astoundingly  stricken  with  an  incapacity  to  separate  any 
of  his  thoughts  from  old  Andrew  Hedger.  Nature  was  at 
her  pranks  upon  him. 

He  left  the  garden  briskly,  as  to  the  legs,  and  reluctantly. 
He  would  have  liked  to  know  whether  Diana  had  recently 
visited  the  house  or  was  expected.  It  could  be  learnt  in  the 
morning;  but  his  mission  was  urgent,  and  he  on  the  wings 
of  it.    He  was  vexed  and  saddened. 

Scarcely  had  he  closed  the  garden-gate  when  the  noise  of 
an  opening  window  arrested  him,  and  he  called.  The  an- 
swer was  in  a  feminine  voice;  youngish,  not  disagreeable, 
though  not  Diana's. 

He  heard  none  of  the  words,  but  rejoined  in  a  bawl,  "Mrs. 
Warwick!     Mr.  Redworth!" 

That  was  loud  enough  for  the  deaf  or  the  dead. 

The  window  closed.  He  went  to  the  door  and  waited.  It 
swung  wide  to  him;  and  oh,  marvel  of  a  woman's  divination 
of  a  woman,  there  stood  Diana! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SHOWS  HOW  A  POSITION  OF  DELICACY  FOR  A  LADY  AND 

GENTLEMAN  WAS  MET  IN  SIMPLE  FASHION 

WITHOUT  HURT  TO  EITHER. 

Redworth's  impulse  was  to  laugh  for  very  gladness  of  heart, 
as  he  proffered  excuses  for  his  tremendous  alarums;  and  in 
doing  so  the  worthy  gentleman  imagined  he  must  have  per- 


86  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

sisted  in  clamoring  for  admission  because  lie  suspected  that, 
if  at  home,  she  would  require  a  violent  summons  to  betray  her- 
self. It  was  necessary  to  him  to  follow  his  abashed  sagacity 
up  to  the  mark  of  his  happy  animation. 

"Had  I  known  it  was  you!"  said  Diana,  bidding  him 
enter  the  passage.  She  wore  a  black  silk  mantilla,  and  was 
warmly  covered. 

She  called  to  her  maid  Danvers,  whom  Kedworth  remem- 
bered: a  firm  woman  of  about  forty,  wrapped,  like  her  mis- 
tress, in  head-covering,  cloak,  scarf,  and  shawl.  Telling  her 
to  scour  the  kitchen  for  firewood,  Diana  led  into  a  sitting- 
room.  "I  need  not  ask;  you  have  come  from  Lady  Dun- 
stane,"  she  said.     "Is  she  well?" 

"She  is  deeply  anxious." 

"You  are  cold.  Empty  houses  are  colder  than  out  of  doors. 
You  shall  soon  have  a  fire." 

She  begged  him  to  be  seated. 

The  small  glow  of  candle-light  made  her  dark  rich  coloring 
orange  in  shadow. 

"House  and  grounds  are  open  to  a  tenant,"  she  resumed. 
"I  say  good-bye  to  them  to-morrow  morning.  The  old  couple 
who  are  in  charge  sleep  in  the  village  to-night.  I  did  not 
want  them  here.  You  have  quitted  the  Government  service, 
I  think?" 

"A  year  or  so  since." 

"When  did  you  return  from  America?" 

"Two  days  back." 

"And  paid  your  visit  to  Copsley  immediately?" 

"As  early  as  I  could." 

"That  was  true  friendliness.     You  have  a  letter  for  me?" 

"I  have." 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket  for  the  letter. 

"Presently,"  she  said.  She  divined  the  contents,  and 
nursed  her  resolution  to  withstand  them.  Danvers  had 
brought  firewood  and  coal.  Orders  were  given  to  her,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  the  maid  and  intervention  of  the 
gentleman,  Diana  knelt  at  the  grate,  observing,  "Allow  me 
to  do  this.     I  can  lay  and  light  a  fire." 

He  was  obliged  to  look  on:  she  was  a  woman  who  spoke 
her  meaning.  She  knelt,  handling  paper,  firewood,  and 
matches,  like  a  housemaid.  Danvers  proceeded  on  her 
mission,  and  Redworth  eyed  Diana  in  the  first  fire-glow. 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  61 

He  could  have  imagine'd  a  Madonna  on  an  old  black  Spanish 
canvas. 

The  act  of  service  was  beautiful  in  gracefulness,  and  her 
simplicity  in  doing  the  work  touched  it  spiritually.  He 
thought,  as  she  knelt  there,  that  never  had  he  seen  how 
lovely  and  how  charged  with  mystery  her  features  were;  the 
dark  large  eyes  full  on  the  brows;  the  proud  line  of  a  straight 
nose  in  right  measure  to  the  bow  of  the  lips;  reposeful  red 
lips,  shut,  and  their  curve  of  the  slumber-smile  at  the  cor- 
ners. Her  forehead  was  broad;  the  chin  of  a  sufficient  firm- 
ness to  sustain  that  noble  square;  the  brows  marked  by  a  soft, 
thick  brush  to  the  temples;  her  black  hair  plainly  drawn 
along  her  head  to  the  knot,  revealed  by  the  mantilla  fallen  on 
her  neck. 

Elegant  in  plainness,  the  classic  poet  would  have  said  of 
her  hair  and  dress.  She  was  of  the  women  whose  wits  are 
quick  in  everything  they  do.  That  which  was  proper  to  her 
position,  complexion,  and  the  hour,  surely  marked  her  ap- 
pearance. Unaccountably  this  night,  the  fair  fleshly  presence 
over-weighted  her  intellectual  distinction,  to  an  observer  bent 
on  vindicating  her  innocence.  Or,  rather,  he  saw  the  hidden 
in  the  visible. 

Owner  of  such  a  woman,  and  to  lose  her!  Redworth 
pitied  the  husband. 

The  crackling  flames  reddened  her  whole  person.  Gazing, 
he  remembered  Lady  Dunstane  saying  of  her  once  that  in 
anger  she  had  the  nostrils  of  a  war-horse.  The  nostrils  now 
were  faintly  alive  under  some  sensitive  impression  of  her 
musings.  The  olive-cheeks,  pale  as  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way, were  flushed  by  the  fire-beams,  though  no  longer  with 
their  swarthy  central  rose,  tropic  flower  of  a  pure  and 
abounding  blood,  as  it  had  seemed.  She  was  now  beset  by 
battle.  His  pity  for  her,  and  his  eager  championship,  over- 
whelmed the  spirit  of  compassion  for  the  foolish  wretched 
husband.  Dolt,  the  man  must  be,  Redworth  thought;  and 
he  asked  inwardly.  Did  the  miserable  tyrant  suppose  of  a 
woman  like  this,  that  she  would  be  content  to  shine  as  a 
candle  in  a  grated  lantern?  The  generosity  of  men  specu- 
lating upon  other  men's  possessions  is  known.  Yet  the  man 
who  loves  a  woman  has  to  the  full  the  husband's  jealousy  of 
her  good  name.  And  a  lover  that,  without  the  claims  of  the 
alliance,  can  be  wounded  on  her  behalf,  is  less  distracted  in 


88  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

his  homage  by  the  personal  luminary,  to  which  man's  manu- 
facture of  balm  and  incense  is  mainly  drawn  when  his  love 
is  wounded.  That  contemplation  of  her  incomparable  beauty, 
with  the  multitude  of  his  ideas  fluttering  round  it,  did  some- 
what shake  the  personal  luminary  in  Eedworth.  He  was 
conscious  of  pangs.  The  question  bit  him:  How  far  had  she 
been  indiscreet  or  willful?  and  the  bite  of  it  was  a  keen  acid 
to  his  nerves.  A  woman  doubted  by  her  husband  is  always, 
and  even  to  her  champions  in  the  first  hours  of  the  noxious 
rumor,  until  they  have  solidified  in  confidence  through  service, 
a  creature  of  the  wilds,  marked  for  our  ancient  running. 
Nay,  more  than  a  cynical  world,  these  latter  will  be  sensible  of 
it.  The  doubt  casts  her  forth,  the  general  yelp  drags  her 
down;  she  runs  like  the  prey  of  the  forest  under  spotting 
branches;  clear  if  we  can  think  so,  but  it  has  to  be  thought 
in  devotedness:  her  character  is  abroad.  Eedworth  bore  a 
strong  resemblance  to  his  fellowmen,  except  for  his  power 
of  faith  in  this  woman.  Nevertheless  it  required  the  superb- 
ness  of  her  beauty  and  the'  contrasting  charm  of  her  humble 
posture  of  kneeling  by  the  fire  to  set  him  on  his  right  track 
of  mind.  He  knew  and  was  sure  of  her.  He  dispersed  the 
unhallowed  fry  in  attendance  upon  any  stirring  of  the  reptile 
part  of  us,  to  look  at  her  with  the  eyes  of  a  friend.  And  if 
.  .  .  .  !  a  little  mouse  of  a  thought  scampered  out  of  one  of 
the  chambers  of  his  head  and  darted  along  the  passages,  fetch- 
ing a  sweat  to  his  brows.  Well,  whatsoever  the  fact  his  heart 
was  hers!     He  hoped  he  could  be  charitable  to  women. 

She  rose  from  her  knees  and  said:  "Now,  please,  give  me 
the  letter." 

He  was  entreated  to  excuse  her  for  consigning  him  to  fire- 
light when  she  left  the  room. 

Danvers  brought  in  a  dismal  tallow-candle,  remarking  that 
her  mistress  had  not  expected  visitors;  her  mistress  had  noth- 
ing but  tea  and  bread  and  butter  to  offer  him.  Danvers  ut- 
tered no  complaint  of  her  sufferings;  happy  in  being  the  pic- 
ture of  them. 

"I'm  not  hungry,"  said  he. 

A  plate  of  Andrew  Hedger's  own  would  not  have  tempted 
him.  The  foolish  frizzle  of  bacon  sang  in  his  ears  as  he 
walked  from  end  to  end  of  the  room;  an  illusion  of  his  fancy 
pricked  by  a  frost-edged  appetite.  But  the  anticipated  con- 
test with  Diana  checked  and  numbed  the  craving. 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  89 

Was  Warwick  a  man  to  proceed  to  extremities  on  a  mad 
suspicion?     What  kind  of  proof  had  he ? 

Eedworth  summoned  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Warwick  before 
him,  and  beheld  a  sweeping  of  close  eyes  in  cloud,  a  long 
upper  lip  in  cloud;  the  rest  of  him  was  all  cloud.  As  usual 
with  these  conjurations  of  a  face,  the  index  of  the  nature 
conceived  by  him  displayed  itself,  and  no  more;  but  he  toolc 
it  for  the  whole  physiognomy,  and  pronounced  of  the  hus- 
band thus  delineated,  that  those  close  eyes  of  the  long  upper 
lip  would  both  suspect  and  proceed  madly. 

He  was  invited  by  Danvers  to  enter  the  dining-room. 

There  Diana  joined  him. 

"The  best  of  a  dinner  on  bread  and  butter  is,  that  one  is 
ready  for  supper  soon  after  it,"  she  said,  swimming  to  the 
tea-tray.     "You  have  dined?" 

"At  the  inn,"  he  replied. 

"The  Three  Eavens!  When  my  father's  guests  from  Lon- 
don flooded  The  Crossways,  The  Three  Eavens  provided  the 
overflow  with  beds.  On  nights  like  this  I  have  got  up  and 
scraped  the  frost  from  my  window-panes  to  see  them  step 
into  the  old  fly,  singing  some  song  of  his.  The  inn  had  a 
good  reputation  for  hospitality  in  those  days.  I  hope  they 
treated  you  well?" 

"Excellently,"  said  Eedworth,  taking  an  enormous  mouth- 
ful, while  his  heart  sank  to  see  that  she  who  smiled  to  en- 
courage his  eating  had  been  weeping.  But  she  also  con- 
sumed her  bread  and  butter. 

"That  poor  maid  of  mine  is  an  instance  of  a  woman  able 
to  do  things  against  the  grain,"  she  said.  "Danvers  is  a 
foster-child  of  luxury.  She  loves  it;  great  houses,  plentiful 
meals,  and  the  crowd  of  twinkling  footmen's  calves.  Yet  you 
see  her  here  in  a  desolate  house,  consenting  to  cold  and  I 
know  not  what — terrors  of  ghosts!  poor  soul.  I  have  some 
mysterious  attraction  for  her.  She  would  not  let  me  come 
alone.  I  should  have  had  to  hire  some  old  Sterling  grannam, 
or  retain  the  tattling  keepers  of  the  house.  She  loves  her 
native  country  too,  and  disdains  the  foreigner.  My  tea  you 
may  trust." 

Eedworth  had  not  a  doubt  of  it.  He  was  becoming  a  tea- 
taster.  The  merit  of  warmth  pertained  to  the  beverage.  "I 
think  you  get  your  tea  from  Scoppin's,  in  the  city,"  he  said. 

That  was  the  warehouse  for  Mrs.  Warwick's  tea.     They 


90  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

conversed  of  teas;  the  black,  the  green,  the  mixtures;  each 
thinking  of  the  attack  to  come,  and  the  defense.  Meantime, 
the  cut  bread  and  butter  having  flown,  Redworth  attacked  the 
loaf.     He  apologized, 

"Oh!  pay  me  a  practical  compliment,"  Diana  said,  and 
looked  really  happy  at  his  unfeigned  relish  of  her  simple 
fare. 

She  had  given  him  one  opportunity  in  speaking  of  her 
maid's  love  of  native  country.     But  it  came  too  early. 

"They  say  that  bread  and  butter  is  fattening,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"You  preserve  the  mean,"  said  she. 

He  admitted  that  his  health  was  good.  For  some  little 
time,  to  his  vexation  at  the  absurdity,  she  kept  him  talking 
of  himself.  So  flowing  was  she,  and  so  sweet  the  motion  of 
her  mouth  in  utterance,  that  he  followed  her  lead,  and  he 
said  odd  things  and  corrected  them.  He  had  to  describe  his 
ride  to  her. 

"Yes!  the  view  of  the  downs  from  Dewhurst,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "or  any  point  along  the  ridge.  Emma  and  I  once 
drove  there  in  summer,  with  clotted  cream  from  her  dairy; 
and  we  bought  fresh-plucked  wortleberries,  and  stewed  them 
in  a  hollow  of  the  furzes,  and  ate  them  with  ground  biscuits 
and  the  clotted  cream  iced,  and  thought  it  a  luncheon  for 
seraphs.  Then  you  dropped  to  the  road  round  under  the 
sand-heights — and  meditated  railways!" 

"Just  a  notion  or  two." 

"You  have  been  very  successful  in  America?" 

"Successful? — perhaps;  we  exclude  extremes  in  our  cal- 
culations of  the  still  problematical." 

"I  am  sure,"  said  she,  "you  always  have  faith  in  your  cal- 
culations." 

Her  innocent  archness  dealt  him  a  stab  sharper  than  any 
he  had  known  since  the  day  of  his  hearing  of  her  engagement. 
He  muttered  of  his  calculations  being  human;  he  was  as  much 
of  a  fool  as  other  men — more! 

"Oh!  no,"  said  she. 

"Positively." 

"I  cannot  think  it." 

"I  know  it." 

"Mr.  Redworth,  you  will  never  persuade  me  to  believe  it." 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  91 

He  knocked  a  rising  groan  on  tiie  head,  and  rejoined:  "I 
hope  I  may  not  have  to  say  so  to-night." 

Diana  felt  the  edge  of  the  dart.  "And  meditating  rail- 
ways you  scored  our  poor  land  of  herds  and  flocks;  and 
night  fell,  and  the  moon  sprang  up,  and  on  you  came.  It 
was  clever  of  you  to  find  your  way  by  the  moonbeams." 

"That's  about  the  one  thing  I  seem  fit  for!" 

"But  what  delusion  is  this,  in  the  mind  of  a  man  succeed- 
ing in  everything  he  does?"  cried  Diana,  curious  despite  her 
wariness.  "Is  there  to  be  the  revelation  of  a  hairshirt  ulti- 
mately?— a  Journal  of  Confessions?  You  succeeded  in  every- 
thing you  aimed  at,  and  broke  your  heart  over  one  chance 
miss?" 

"My  heart  is  not  of  the  stuff  to  break,"  he  said,  and  laughed 
off  her  fortuitous  thrust  straight  into  it.  "Another  cup,  yes. 
I  came  .  .  .  /' 

"By  night,"  said  she,  "and  cleverly  found  your  way,  and 
dined  at  The  Three  Eavens,  and  walked  to  The  Crossways, 
and  met  no  ghosts." 

"On  the  contrary — or  at  least  I  saw  a  couple." 

"Tell  me  of  them;  we  breed  them  here.  We  sell  them 
periodically  to  the  newspapers." 

"Well,  I  started  them  in  their  natal  locality.  I  saw  them, 
going  down  the  churchyard,  and  bellowed  after  them  with  all 
my  lungs.  I  wanted  directions  to  The  Crossways;  I  had 
missed  my  way  at  some  turning.  In  an  instant  they  were 
vapor." 

Diana  smiled.  "It  was  indeed  a  voice  to  startle  delicate 
apparitions!  So  do  roar  Hyrcanean  tigers,  Pyramus  and 
Thisbe — slaying  lions!  One  of  your  ghosts  carried  a  loaf  of 
bread,  and  dropped  it  in  fright;  one  carried  a  pound  of  fresh 
butter  for  home  consumption.  They  were  in  the  church- 
yard for  one  in  passing  to  kneel  at  her  father's  grave  and  kiss 
his  tombstone." 

She  bowed  her  head,  forgetful  of  her  guard. 

The  pause  presented  an  opening.  Redworth  left  his  chair 
and  walked  to  the  mantelpiece.  It  was  easier  to  him  to 
speak,  not  facing  her. 

"You  have  read  Lady  Dunstane's  letter?"  he  began. 

She  nodded.     "I  have." 

"Can  you  resist  her  appeal  to  you?" 

"I  must." 


93  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"She  is  not  in  a  condition  to  bear  it  well.  You  will  pardon 
me,  Mrs.  Warwick  .  .  ." 

"Fully!     Fully!" 

"I  venture  to  offer  merely  practical  advice.  You  have 
thought  of  it  all,  but  have  not  felt  it.  In  these  cases  the 
one  thing  to  do  is  to  make  a  stand.  Lady  Dunstane  has  a 
clear  head.  She  sees  what  has  to  be  endured  by  you.  Con- 
sider: she  appeals  to  me  to  bring  you  her  letter.  Would  she 
have  chosen  me,  or  any  man,  for  her  messenger,  if  it  had  not 
appeared  to  her  a  matter  of  life  and  death? — You  count  me 
among  your  friends." 

"One  of  the  truest." 

"Here  are  two,  then,  and  your  own  good  sense.  For  I  do 
not  believe  it  to  be  a  question  of  courage." 

"He  has  commenced.     Let  him  carry  it  out,"  said  Diana. 

Her  desperation  could  have  added  the  cry — And  give  me 
freedom!  That  was  the  secret  in  her  heart.  She  had  struck 
on  the  hope  for  the  detested  yoke  to  be  broken  at  any 
cost. 

"I  decline  to  meet  his  charges.  I  despise  them.  If  my 
friends  have  faith  in  me — and  they  may! — I  want  nothing 
more." 

"Well,  I  won't  talk  commonplaces  about  the  world,"  said 
Redworth.  "We  can  none  of  us  afford  to  have  it  against 
us.  Consider  a  moment:  to  your  friends  you  are  the  Diana 
Merion  they  knew,  and  they  will  not  suffer  an  injury  to 
your  good  name  without  a  struggle.  But  if  you  fly?  You 
leave  the  dearest  you  have  to  the  whole  brunt  of  it." 

"They  will,  if  they  love  me." 

"They  will.  But  think  of  the  shock  to  her.  Lady  Dun- 
stane reads  you  .  .  ." 

"Not  quite.  No,  not  if  she  even  wishes  me  to  stay!"  said 
Diana. 

He  was  too  intent  on  his  pleading  to  perceive  a  significa- 
tion. 

"She  reads  you  as  clearly  in  the  dark  as  if  you  were  present 
with  her." 

"Oh!  why  am  I  not  ten  years  older?"  Diana  cried,  and 
tried  to  face  round  to  him,  and  stopped  paralyzed.  "Ten 
years  older,  I  could  discuss  my  situation,  as  an  old  woman  of 
the  world,  and  use  my  wits  to  defend  myself." 

"And  then  you  would  not  dream  of  flight  before  it!" 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  §3 

'^No,  she  does  not  read  me:  no!  She  saw  that  I  might  come 
to  The  Crossways.  She — no  one  but  myself  can  see  the 
wisdom  of  my  holding  aloof,  in  contempt  of  this  base- 
ness/^ 

"And  of  allowing  her  to  sink  under  that  which  your  pres- 
ence would  arrest.     Her  strength  will  not  support  it." 

"Emma!  Oh,  cruel!"  Diana  sprang  up  to  give  play  to 
her  limbs.  She  dropped  on  another  chair.  "Go  I  must,  I 
cannot  turn  back.  She  saw  my  old  attachment  to  this  place. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  guess  ....  Who  but  I  can  see  the 
wisest  course  for  me!" 

"It  comes  to  this,  that  the  blow  aimed  at  you  in  your 
absence  will  strike  her,  and  mortally,"  said  Eedworth. 

"Then  I  say  it  is  terrible  to  have  a  friend,"  said  Diana,  with 
her  bosom  heaving. 

"Friendship,  I  fancy,  means  one  heart  between  two." 

His  unstressed  observation  hit  a  bell  in  her  head,  and  set 
it  reverberating.  She  and  Emma  had  spoken,  written,  the 
very  words.  She  drew  forth  her  Emma's  letter  from  under 
her  left  breast,  and  read  some  half -blinded  lines. 

Eedworth  immediately  prepared  to  leave  her  to  her  feelings 
— trustier  guides  than  her  judgment  in  this  crisis. 

"Adieu,  for  the  night,  Mrs.  Warwick,"  he  said,  and  was 
guilty  of  eulogizing  the  judgment  he  thought  erratic  for  the 
moment. '  "Night  is  a  calm  adviser.  Let  me  presume  to 
come  again  in  the  morning.     I  dare  not  go  back  without  you." 

She  looked  up.  As  they  faced  together  each  saw  that  the 
other  had  passed  through  a  furnace,  scorching  enough  to  him, 
though  hers  was  the  delicacy  exposed.  The  reflection  had  its 
weight  with  her  during  the  night. 

"Danvers  is  getting  ready  a  bed  for  you;  she  is  airing 
linen,"  Diana  said.  But  the  bed  was  declined,  and  the  hos- 
pitality was  not  pressed.  The  offer  of  it  seemed  to  him  sig- 
nificant of  an  unwary  cordiality  and  thoughtlessness  of  tattlers 
that  might  account  possibly  for  many  things — supposing  a 
fool  or  madman,  or  malignants,  to  interpret  them. 

"Then,  good  night,"  said  she. 

They  joined  hands.  He  exacted  no  promise  that  she  would 
be  present  in  the  morning  to  receive  him;  and  it  was  a  con- 
solation to  her  desire  for  freedom,  until  she  reflected  on  the 
perfect  confidence  it  implied,  and  felt  as  a  quivering  butterfly 
impalpably  pinned. 


94  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  CONFLICT  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Her  brain  was  a  steam- wheel  throughout  the  night;  every- 
thing that  could  be  thought  of  was  tossed,  nothing  grasped. 

The  unfriendliness  of  the  friends  who  sought  to  retain  her 
recurred.  For  look — to  fly  could  not  be  interpreted  as  a 
flight.  It  was  but  a  stepping  aside,  a  disdain  of  defending 
herself,  and  a  wrapping  herself  in  her  dignity.  Women  would 
be  with  her.  She  called  on  the  noblest  of  them  to  justify  the 
course  she  chose,  and  they  did,  in  an  almost  audible  murmur. 

And  oh!  the  rich  reward.  A  black  archway-gate  swung 
open  to  the  glittering  fields  of  freedom. 

Emma  was  not  of  the  chorus.  Emma  meditated  as  an  in- 
valid. How  often  had  Emma  bewailed  to  her  that  the  most 
grevious  burden  of  her  malady  was  her  fatal  tendency  to  brood 
sickly  upon  human  complications!  She  could  not  see  the 
blessedness  of  the  prospect  of  freedom  to  a  woman  abominably 
yoked.  What  if  a  miserable  woman  were  dragged  through 
mire  to  reach  it!  Married,  the  mire  was  her  portion,  what- 
ever she  might  do.     That  man — but  pass  him! 

And  that  other — the  dear,  the  kind,  careless,  high-hearted 
old  friend.  He  could  honestly  protest  his  guiltlessness,  and 
would  smilingly  leave  the  case  to  go  its  ways.  Of  this  she  was 
sure,  that  her  decision  and  her  pleasure  would  be  his.  They 
were  tied  to  the  stake.  She  had  already  tasted  some  of  the 
mortal  agony.  Did  it  matter  whether  the  flames  consumed 
her? 

Reflecting  on  the  interview  with  Redworth,  though  she 
had*  performed  her  part  in  it  placidly,  her  skin  burned.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  tortures  if  she  stayed  in  England. 

By  staying  to  defend  herself  she  forfeited  her  attitude  of 
dignity  and  lost  all  chance  of  her  reward.  And  name  the  sort 
of  world  it  is,  dear  friends,  for  which  we  are  to  sacrifice  our 
one  hope  of  freedom,  that  we  may  preserve  our  fair  fame  in 
it! 

Diana  cried  aloud,  "My  freedom!"  feeling  as  a  butterfly 
flown  out  of  a  box  to  stretches  of  sunny  earth  beneath  spa- 
cious heavens.    Her  bitter  marriage, — joyless  in  all  its  chap- 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  95 

ters,  indefensible  where  the  man  was  right  as  well  as  where 
insensately  wrong, — had  been  imprisonment.  She  excused 
him  down  to  his  last  madness,  if  only  the  bonds  were  broken. 
Here,  too,  in  this  very  house  of  her  happiness  with  her  father, 
she  had  bound  herself  to  the  man:  voluntarily,  quite  inexpli- 
cably. Voluntarily,  as  we  say.  But  there  must  be  a  spell 
upon  us  at  times.     Upon  young  women  there  certainly  is. 

The  wild  brain  of  Diana,  armed  by  her  later  enlighten- 
ment as  to  the  laws  of  life  and  nature,  dashed  in  revolt  at 
the  laws  of  the  world  when  she  thought  of  the  forces,  natural 
and  social,  urging  young  women  to  marry  and  be  bound  to 
the  end. 

It  should  be  a  spotless  world  which  is  thus  ruthless. 

But  were  the  world  impeccable  it  would  behave  more  gen- 
erously. 

The  world  is  ruthless,  dear  friends,  because  the  world  is 
hypocrite!  The  world  cannot  afford  to  be  magnanimous  or 
even  just. 

Her  dissensions  with  her  husband,  their  differences  of 
opinion  and  puny  wranglings,  hoistings  of  two  standards, 
reconciliations  for  the  sake  of  decency,  breaches  of  the  truer, 
and  his  detested  meanness,  the  man  behind  the  mask;  and 
glimpses  of  herself,  too,  the  half-known,  half-suspected,  de- 
veloping creature  claiming  to  be  Diana,  and  unlike  her 
dreamed  Diana,  deformed  by  marriage,  irritable,  acerb,  rebel- 
lious, constantly  justifiable  against  him,  but  not  in  her  own 
mind,  and  therefore  accusing  him  of  the  double  crime  of  pro- 
voking her  and  perverting  her — these  were  the  troops  defiling 
through  her  head  while  she  did  battle  with  the  hypocrite 
world. 

One  painful  sting  was  caused  by  the  feeling  that  she  could 
have  loved — whom?  An  ideal.  Had  he,  the  imagined  but 
unvisioned,  been  her  yoke-fellow,  would  she  now  lie  raising 
caged-beast  cries  in  execration  of  the  yoke?  She  Avould  not 
now  be  seeing  herself  a  hare,  serpent,  tigress!  The  hypoth- 
esis was  reviewed  in  negatives;  she  had  barely  a  sense  of 
softness,  just  a  single  little  heave  of  the  bosom,  quivering 
upward  and  leadenly  sinking,  when  she  glanced  at  a  married 
Diana  heartily  mated.  The  regrets  of  the  youthful  for  a 
life  sailing  away  under  medical  sentence  of  death  in  the  sad 
eyes  of  relatives  resemble  it.  She  could  have  loved.  Good- 
bye to  that! 


96  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

A  woman's  brutallest  tussle  with  the  world  was  upon  her. 
She  was  in  the  arena  of  the  savage  claws,  flung  there  by  the 
man  who  of  all  others  should  have  protected  her  from  them. 
And  what  had  she  done  to  deserve  it?  She  listened  to  the 
advocate  pleading  her  case;  she  primed  him  to  admit  the 
charges,  to  say  the  worst,  in  contempt  of  legal  prudence, 
and  thereby  expose  her  transparent  honesty.  The  very  things 
awakening  a  mad  suspicion  proved  her  innocence.  But  was 
she  this  utterly  simple  person?  Oh,  no!  She  was  the  Diana 
of  the  pride  in  her  power  of  fencing  with  evil — by  no  means 
of  the  order  of  those  ninny  young  women  who  realize  the  pop- 
ular conception  of  the  purely  innocent.  She  had  fenced  and 
kept  her  guard.  Of  this  it  was  her  angry  glory  to  have  the 
knowledge.  But  she  had  been  compelled  to  fence.  Such  are 
men  in  the  world  of  facts,  that,  when  a  woman  steps  out  of 
her  domestic  tangle  to  assert,  because  it  is  a  tangle,  her  rights 
to  partial  independence,  they  sight  her  for  their  prey,  or  at 
least  they  complacently  suppose  her  accessible.  Wretched  at 
home,  a  woman  ought  to  bury  herself  in  her  wretchedness, 
else  may  she  be  assured  that  not  the  cleverest,  wariest  guard 
will  cover  her  character. 

Against  the  husband  her  cause  was  triumphant.  Against 
herself  she  decided  not  to  plead  it,  for  this  reason,  that  the 
preceding  court,  which  was  the  public  and  only  positive  one, 
had  entirely  and  justly  exonerated  her.  But  the  holding  of 
her  hand  by  the  friend  half  a  minute  too  long  for  friendship, 
and  the  overfriendliness  of  looks,  letters,  frequency  of  visits, 
would  speak  within  her.  She  had  a  darting  view  of  her  hus- 
band's estimation  of  them  in  his  present  mood.  She 
quenched  it:  they  were  trifles — things  that  women  of  the 
world  have  to  combat.  The  revelation  to  a  fair-minded  young 
woman  of  the  majority  of  men  being  naught  other  than  men, 
and  some  of  the  friendliest  of  men  betraying  confidence  un- 
der the  excuse  of  temptation,  is  one  of  the  shocks  to  simpli- 
city which  leave  her  the  alternative  of  misanthropy  or  phil- 
osophy. Diana  had  not  the  heart  to  hate  her  kind,  so  she 
resigned  herself  to  pardon,  and  to  the  recognition  of  the  state 
of  duel  between  the  sexes — active  enough  in  her  sphere  of  so- 
ciety. The  circle  hummed  with  it;  many  lived  for  it.  Could 
she  pretend  to  ignore  it?  Her  personal  experience  might  have 
instigated  a  less  clear  and  less  intrepid  nature  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  opportunity  for  playing  the  popular  innocent, 


DIA'NA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  97 

who  runs  about  with  astonished  eyes  to  find  herself  in  so 
hunting  a  world,  and  wins  general  compassion,  if  not  shelter, 
in  unsuspected  and  unlicensed  places.  There  is  perpetually 
the  inducement  to  act  the  hypocrite  before  the  hypocrite 
world,  unless  a  woman  submits  to  be  the  humbly  knitting 
housewife,  unquestioningly  worshipful  of  her  lord;  for  the 
world  is  ever  gracious  to  an  liypocrisy  that  pays  homage  to  the 
mask  of  virtue  by  copying  it;  the  world  is  hostile  to  the  face 
of  an  innocence  not  conventionally  simpering  and  quite  sur- 
prised; the  world  prefers  decorum  to  honesty.  "Let  me  be 
myself,  whatever  the  martyrdom!"  she  cried,  in  that  phase  of 
young  sensation  when,  to  the  blooming  woman,  the  putting 
on  of  a  mask  appears  to  wither  her  and  reduce  her  to  the 
show  she  parades.  Yet,  in  common  with  her  sisterhood,  she 
owned  she  had  worn  a  sort  of  mask;  the  world  demands  it  of 
them  as  the  price  of  their  station.  That  she  had  never  worn 
it  consentingly  was  the  plea  for  now  casting  it  off  altogether, 
showing  herself  as  she  was,  accepting  martyrdom,  becoming 
the  first  martyr  of  the  modern  woman's  cause.  A  grand  posi- 
tion! and  one  imaginable  to  an  excited  mind  in  the  dark, 
which  does  not  conjure  a  critical  humor,  as  light  does,  to  cor- 
rect the  feverish  sublimity.  She  was,  then,  this  martyr,  a 
woman  capable  of  telling  the  world  she  knew  it,  and  of  con- 
fessing that  she  had  behaved  in  disdain  of  its  rigider  rules, 
according  to  her  own  ideas  of  her  immunities.     Oh  brave! 

But  was  she  holding  the  position  by  flight?  It  involved  the 
challenge  of  consequences,  not  an  evasion  of  them. 

She  moaned;  her  mental  steam- wheel  stopped:  fatigue 
brought  sleep. 

She  had  sensationally  led  her  rebellious  wits  to  The  Cross- 
ways,  distilling  much  poison  from  thoughts  on  the  way;  and 
there,  for  the  luxury  of  a  still  seeming  indecision,  she  sank 
into  oblivion. 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

RECOUNTS  THE  JOURNEY  IN  A  CHARIOT,  WITH  A  CER- 
TAIN AMOUNT  OF  DIALOGUE,  AND  A  SMALL 
INCIDENT    ON   THE   ROAD. 

In  the  morning  the  fight  was  over.     She  looked  at  the 
signpost  of  The  Crossways  whilst  dressing,  and  submitted  to 


98  DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

follow,  obediently  as  a  puppet,  the  road  recommended  by 
friends,  though  a  voice  within,  that  she  took  for  the  intima- 
tions of  her  reason,  protested  that  they  were  wrong,  that  they 
were  judging  of  her  case  in  the  general,  and  unwisely — dis- 
astrously for  her. 

The  mistaking  of  her  desires  for  her  reason  was  peculiar  to 
her  situation. 

"So  I  suppose  I  shall  some  day  see  The  Crossways  again," 
she  said,  to  conceive  a  compensation  in  the  abandonment  of 
freedom.  The  night's  red  vision  of  martyrdom  was  reserved 
to  console  her  secretly,  among  the  unopened  lockers  in  her 
treasury  of  thoughts.  It  helped  to  sustain  her;  and  she  was 
too  conscious  of  things  necessary  for  her  sustainment  to  bring 
it  to  the  light  of  day  and  examine  it.  She  had  a  pitiful  bit 
of  pleasure  in  the  gratification  she  imparted  to  Danvers,  by 
informing  her  that  the  journey  of  the  day  was  backward  to 
Copsley. 

"If  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  ma'am,  I  am  very  glad,"  said 
her  maid. 

"You  must  be  prepared  for  the  questions  of  lawyers,  Dan- 
vers." 

"Oh,  ma'am!  they'll  get  nothing  out  of  me,  and  their 
wigs  won't  frighten  me." 

"It  is  usually  their  baldness  that  is  most  frightening,  my 
poor  Danvers." 

"Nor  their  baldness,  ma'am,"  said  the  literal  maid;  "I  never 
cared  for  their  heads,  or  them.  I've  been  in  a  case  be- 
fore." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  her  mistress;   and  she  had  a  chill. 

Danvers  mentioned  a  notorious  case,  adding,  "They  got 
nothing  out  of  me." 

"In  my  case  you  will  please  to  speak  the  truth,"  said  Diana, 
and  beheld  in  the  looking-glass  the  primming  of  her  maid's 
mouth.     The  sight  shot  a  sting. 

"Understand  that  there  is  to  be  no  hesitation  about  telling 
the  truth  of  what  you  know  of  me,"  said  Diana;  and  the  an- 
swer was,  "No,  ma'am." 

For  Danvers  could  remark  to  herself  that  she  knew  little, 
and  was  not  a  person  to  hesitate.  She  was  a  maid  of  the 
world,  with  the  quality  of  faithfulness,  by  nature,  to  a  good 
mistress. 

Eedworth's  further  difficulties  were  confined  to  the  hiring 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  99 

of  a  conveyance  for  the  travelers,  and  hot-water  bottles,  to- 
gether with  a  postillion  not  addicted  to  drunkenness.  He 
procured  a  posting-chariot,  an  ancient  and  musty,  of  a  late 
autumnal  yellow  unrefreshed  by  paint;  the  only  bottles  to 
be  had  were  Dutch  schiedam.  His  postillion,  inspected  at 
Sterling,  carried  the  flag  of  habitual  inebriation  on  his  nose, 
and  he  deemed  it  advisable  to  ride  the  mare  in  accompani- 
ment as  far  as  Riddlehurst,  notwithstanding  the  postillion's 
vows  upon  his  honor  that  he  was  no  drinker.  The  emphasis, 
to  a  gentleman  acquainted  with  his  countrymen,  was  not  re- 
assuring. He  had  hopes  of  enlisting  a  trustier  fellow  at  Rid- 
dlehurst, but  he  was  disappointed;  and  while  debating  upon 
what  to  do,  for  he  shrank  from  leaving  two  women  to  the 
conduct  of  that  inflamed  trough-snout,  Brisby,  dispatched  to 
Sterling  by  an  after-thought  of  Lady  Dunstane's,  rushed  out 
of  the  Riddlehurst  inn  tap-room  and  relieved  him  of  the 
charge  of  the  mare.  He  was  accommodated  with  a  seat  on  a 
stool  in  the  chariot,  "My  triumphal  car,"  said  his  captive. 
She  was  very  amusing  about  her  postillion;  Danvers  had  to 
beg  pardon  for  laughing.  "You  are  happy,"  observed  her 
mistress.  But  Redworth  laughed  too,  and  he  could  not  boast 
of  any  happiness  beyond  the  temporary  satisfaction,  nor  could 
she  who  sprang  the  laughter  boast  of  that  little.  She  said  to 
herself,  in  the  midst  of  the  hilarity,  "Wherever  I  go  now,  in 
all  weathers,  I  am  perfectly  naked!"  And  remembering  her 
readings  of  a  certain  wonderful  old  quarto  book  in  her  fath- 
er's library,  by  an  eccentric  old  Scottish  nobleman,  wherein 
the  wearing  of  garments  and  sleeping  in  houses  is  accused  as 
the  cause  of  human  degeneracy,  she  took  a  forced  merry  stand 
on  her  return  to  the  primitive  healthful  state  of  man  and 
woman,  and  affected  scorn  of  our  modern  ways  of  dressing  and 
thinking;  whence  it  came  that  she  had  some  of  her  wildest 
seizures  of  iridescent  humor.  Danvers  attributed  the  fun 
to  her  mistress'  gladness  in  not  having  pursued  her  bent  to 
quit  the  country.  Redworth  saw  deeper,  and  was  neverthe- 
less amazed  by  the  airy  hawk-poise  and  pounce-down  of  her 
wit,  as  she  ranged  high  and  low,  now  capriciously  generaliz- 
ing, now  dropping  bolt  upon  things  of  passage — the  postillion 
jogging  from  rum  to  gin,  the  rustics  baconly  agape,  the  horse- 
kneed  ostlers.  She  touched  them  to  the  life  in  similes  and 
phrases;  and  next  she  was  aloft,  derisively  philosophizing,  but 
with  a  comic  afflatus  that  dispersed  the  sharpness  of  her  irony 


100  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

in  mocking  laughter.  The  afternoon  refreshments  at  the  inn 
of  the  county  market-town,  and  the  EngHsh  idea  of  public 
hospitality  as  to  manner  and  the  substance  provided  for  way- 
farers, was  among  the  themes  she  made  memorable  to  him. 
She  spoke  of  everything  tolerantly,  just  naming  it  in  a  simple 
sentence,  that  fell  with  a  ring  and  chimed:  their  host's  ready 
acquiescence  in  receiving  orders,  his  contemptuous  disclaimer 
of  stuff  he  did  not  keep,  his  fiat  indifference  to  the  sheep  he 
sheared,  and  the  phantom  half-crown  flickering  in  one  eye  of 
the  anticipatory  waiter;  the  pervading  and  confounding  smell 
of  stale  beer  over  all  the  apartments;  the  prevalent  notion  of 
bread,  butter,  tea,  milk,  sugar,  as  matter  for  the  exercise  of  a 
native  inventive  genius — ^these  were  reviewed  in  quips  of 
metaphor. 

"Come,  we  can  do  better  at  an  inn  or  two  known  to  me," 
said  Eedworth. 

"Surely  this  is  the  best  that  can  be  done  for  us,  when 
we  strike  them  with  the  magic  wand  of  a  postillion?"  said 
she. 

'T.t  depends,  as  elsewhere,  on  the  individuals  entertaining 
us.'^ 

"Yet  you  admit  that  your  railways  are  rapidly  "^polishing  off' 
the  individual." 

"They  will  spread  the  metropolitan  idea  of  comfort." 
"I  fear  they  will  feed  us  on  nothing  but  that  big  word. 
It  booms — a  curfew  bell — for  every  poor  little  light  that  we 
would  read  by." 

Seeing  their  beacon-nosed  postillion  preparing  to  mount 
and  failing  in  his  jump,  Eedworth  was  apprehensive,  and 
questioned  the  fellow  concerning  potation. 

"Lord,  sir,  they  call  me  half  a  horse,  but  I  can't  'bide  wa- 
ter," was  the  reply,  with  the  assurance  that  he  had  not  "taken 
a  pailful." 

Habit  enabled  him  to  gain  his  seat. 

"It  seems  to  us  unnecessary  to  heap  on  coal  when  the 
chimney  is  afire;  but  he  may  know  the  proper  course,"  Diana 
said,  convulsing  Danvers;  and  there  was  discernibly  to  Red- 
worth,  under  the  influence  of  her  phrases,  a  likeness  of  the 
flaming  "half-horse,"  with  the  animals  all  smoking  in  the 
frost,  to  a  railway-engine.  "Your  wrinkled  centaur,"  she 
named  the  man.  Of  course  he  had  to  play  second  to  her, 
and  not  unwillingly;  but  he  reflected  passingly  on  the  in- 
stinctive push  of  her  rich  and  sparkling  voluble  fancy  to  the 


DIANA   OF   THE    CRQSSWAYS.  101 

initiative,  which  women  do  not  like  in  a  woman,  and  men 
prefer  to  distantly  admire.  English  women  and  men  feel  to- 
wards the  quickwitted  of  their  species  as  to  aliens,  having  the 
demerits  of  aliens — wordiness,  vanity,  obscurity,  shallowness, 
an  empty  glitter,  the  sin  of  posturing.  A  quickwitted  woman 
exerting  her  wit  is  both  a  foreigner  and  potentially  a  criminal. 
She  is  incandescent  to  a  breath  of  rumor.  It  accounted  for 
her  having  detractors;  a  heavy  counterpoise  to  her  enthusi- 
astic friends.  It  might  account  for  her  husband's  discontent 
— the  reduction  of  him  to  a  state  of  mere  mascuUne  antago- 
nism. What  is  the  husband  of  a  vanward  woman?  He  feels 
himself  but  a  diminished  man.  The  English  husband  of  a 
voluble  woman  relapses  into  a  dreary  mute.  Ah,  for  the 
choice  of  places!  Eedworth  would  have  yielded  her  the  lo- 
quent  lead  for  the  smallest  of  the  privileges  due  to  him  who 
now  rejected  all,  except  the  public  scourging  of  her.  The 
conviction  was  in  his  mind  that  the  husband  of  this  woman 
sought  rather  to  punish  than  be  rid  of  her.  But  a  part  of  his 
own  emotion  went  to  form  the  judgment. 

Furthermore,  Lady  Dunstane's  allusion  to  her  ^'enemies" 
made  him  set  down  her  growing  crop  of  backbiters  to  the 
trick  she  had  of  ridiculing  tilings  English.  If  the  English 
do  it  themselves  it  is  in  a  professionally  robust,  a  jacose,  kind- 
ly way,  always  with  a  glance  at  the  other  things,  great  things, 
they  excel  in;  and  it  is  done  to  have  the  credit  of  doing  it, 
They  are  keen  to  catch  an  inimical  tone;  they  will  find  oc- 
casion to  chastise  the  presumptuous  individual,  unless  it  be 
the  leader  of  a  party,  therefore  a  power;  for  they  respect  a 
power.  Eedworth  knew  their  quaintnesses;  without  overlook- 
ing them  he  winced  at  the  acid  of  an  irony  that  seemed  to 
spring  from  aversion,  and  regretted  it  for  her  sake.  He  had 
to  recollect  that  she  was  in  a  sharp-strung  mood,  bitterly  sur- 
excited.  Moreover,  he  reminded  himself  of  her  many  and 
memorable  phrases  of  enthusiasm  for  England — Shakespeare- 
land,  as  she  would  sometimes  perversely  term  it,  to  sink  the 
country  in  the  poet.  English  fortitude,  English  integrity, 
the  English  disposition  to  do  justice  to  dependents,  adolescent 
English  ingenuousness,  she  was  always  ready  to  laud.  Only 
her  enthusiasm  required  rousing  by  circumstances;  it  was 
less  at  the  brim  than  her  satire.  Hence  she  made  enemies 
among  a  placable  people. 

He  felt  that  he  could  have  helped  her  imder  happier  con- 


102  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

ditions.  The  beautiful  vision  she  had  been  on  the  night  of 
the  Irish  ball  swept  before  him,  and  he  looked  at  her,  smil- 
ing. 

"Why  do  you  smile?''  she  said. 

"I  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith." 

"Ah!  my  dear  compatriot!  And  think,  too,  of  Lord  L^r- 
rian.'^ 

She  caught  her  breath.  Instead  of  recreation  the  names 
brought  on  a  fit  of  sadness.  It  deepened;  she  neither  smiled 
nor  rattled  any  more.  She  gazed  across  the  hedgeways  at 
the  white  meadows  and  bare-twigged  copses  showing  their 
last  leaves  in  the  frost. 

"I  remember  your  words:  ^Observation  is  the  most  en- 
during of  the  pleasures  of  life';  and  so  I  have  found  it,"  she 
said.  There  was  a  brightness  along  her  under-eyelids  that 
caused  him  to  look  away. 

The  expected  catastrophe  occurred  on  the  descent  of  a 
cutting  in  the  sand,  where  their  cordial  postillion  at  a  trot 
bumped  the  chariot  against  the  sturdy  wheels  of  a  wagon, 
which  sent  it  reclining  for  support  upon  a  beech-tree's  huge 
intertwisted  serpent  roots,  amid  strips  of  brown  bracken  and 
pendent  weeds,  while  he  exhibited  one  short  stump  of  leg, 
all  boot,  in  air.  No  one  was  hurt.  Diana  disengaged  her- 
self from  the  shoulder  of  Dan  vers,  and  mildly  said: 

"That  reminds  me,  I  forgot  to  ask  why  we  came  in  a 
chariot." 

Eedworth  was  excited  on  her  behalf,  but  the  broken  glass 
had  done  no  damage,  nor  had  Danvers  fainted.  The  remark 
was  unintelligible  to  him,  apart  from  the  comforting  it  had 
been  designed  to  give.  He  jumped  out,  and  held  a  hand  for 
them  to  do  the  same.  "I  never  foresaw  an  event  more  posi- 
tively," said  he. 

"And  it  was  nothing  but  a  back  view  that  inspired  you 
all  the  way,"  said  Diana. 

A  wagoner  held  the  horses,  another  assisted  Eedworth  to 
right  the  chariot.  The  postillion  had  hastily  recovered  pos- 
session of  his  official  seat,  that  he  might  as  soon  as  possible 
feel  himself  again  where  he  was  most  intelligent,  and  was  gay 
in  stupidity,  indifferent  to  what  happened  behind  him.  Diana 
heard  him  counseling  the  wagoner  as  to  the  common  sense 
of  meeting  small  accidents  Avith  a  cheerful  soul. 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  103 

"Lord!''  he  cried,  "I  been  pitched  a  somerset  in  my  time, 
and  taken  up  for  dead,  and  that  didn't  beat  me!" 

Disasters  of  the  present  kind  could  hardly  affect  such  a 
veteran.  But  he  was  painfully  disconcerted  by  Eedworth's 
determination  not  to  entrust  the  ladies  any  further  to  his 
guidance.  Danvers  had  implored  for  permission  to  walk 
the  mile  to  the  town,  and  thence  take  a  fly  to  Copsley.  Her 
mistress  rather  sided  with  the  postillion,  who  begged  them 
to  spare  him  the  disgrace  of  riding  in  and  delivering  a  box 
at  the  Eed  Lion. 

"What'll  they  say?  And  they  know  Arthur  Dance  well 
there,''  he  groaned.  "What!  Arthur!  chariotin'  a  box! 
And  me  a  better  man  to  his  work  now  than  I  been  for  many 
a  long  season,  fit  for  double  the  journey!  A  bit  of  a  shake 
always  braces  me  up.  I  could  read  a  newspaper  right  off, 
small  print  and  all.     Come  along,  sir,  and  hand  the  ladies  in." 

Danvers  vowed  her  thanks  to  Mr.  Redworth  for  refusing. 
They  walked  ahead;  the  postillion  communicated  his  mixture 
of  professional  and  human  feelings  to  the  wagoners,  and 
walked  his  horses  in  the  rear,  meditating  on  the  weak-hearted- 
ness  of  gentryfolk,  and  the  means  for  escaping  being  chaffed 
out  of  his  boots  at  the  Old  Eed  Lion,  where  he  was  to  eat, 
drink,  and  sleep  that  night.  Ladies  might  be  fearsome  after 
a  bit  of  a  shake;  he  would  not  have  supposed  it  of  a  gentle- 
man. He  jogged  himself  into  an  arithmetic  of  the  number  of 
nips  of  liquor  he  had  taken  to  soothe  him  on  the  road,  in  spite 
of  the  gentleman.  "For  some  of  'em  are  sworn  enemies  of 
poor  men,  as  yonder  one,  ne'er  a  doubt.'' 

Diana  enjoyed  her  walk  beneath  the  lingering  brown-red 
of  the  frosty  November  sunset,  with  the  scent  of  sand-earth 
strong  in  the  air. 

"I  had  to  hire  a  chariot  because  there  was  no  two-horse 
carriage,"  said  Redwortb,  "and  I  wished  to  reach  Copsley  as 
early  as  possible." 

She  replied,  smiling,  that  accidents  were  fated.  As  a  cer- 
tain marriage  had  been!  The  comparison  forced  itself  on  her 
reflections. 

"But  this  is  quite  an  adventure,"  said  she,  reanimated  by 
the  brisker  flow  of  her  blood.  "We  ought  really  to  be  thank- 
ful for  it,  in  days  when  nothing  happens." 

Redworth  accused  her  of  getting  that  idea  from  the  perusal 
of  romances. 


/^■' ' 


i., 


04    /  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 


"Yes,  our  lives  require  compression,  like  romances,  to  be 
interesting,  and  we  object  to  the  process,^^  she  said.  "Real 
happiness  is  a  state  of  dullness.  When  we  taste  it  con- 
sciously it  becomes  mortal — a  thing  of  the  seasons.  But  I 
like  my  walk.  How  long  these  November  sunsets  burn, 
and  what  hues  they  have!  There  is  a  scientific  reason,  only 
don't  tell  it  me.  JSTow  I  understand  why  you  always  used 
to  choose  your  holidays  in  November.'' 

She   thrilled   him   with  her   friendly   recollection   of   his 
I     customs. 

f.         "As  to  happiness,  the  looking  forward  is  happiness,"  he 
I      remarked. 

I  "Oh,  the  looking  back!   back!"  she  cried. 

f  "Forward!  that  is  life." 

I  "And  backward,  death,  if  you  will;    and  still  it  is  hap- 

f       piness.     Death,  and  our  postillion!" 

I  "Ay;    I  wonder  why  the  fellow  hangs  to  the  rear,"  said 

I       Eedworth,  turning  about. 

«  "It's  his  cunning  strategy,  poor  creature,  so  that  he  may 

be  thought  to  have  delivered  us  at  the  head  of  the  town,  for 
us  to  make  a  purchase  or  two,  if  we  go  to  the  inn  on  foot," 
said  Diana.     "We'll  let  the  maneuver  succeed." 

Eedworth  declared  that  she  had  a  head  for  everything, 
and  she  was  flattered  to  hear  him. 

So  passing  from  the  southern  into  the  western  road,  they 
saw  the  town-lights  beneath  an  umber  sky  burning  out 
somberly  over  the  woods  of  Copsley,  and  entered  the  town, 
the  postillion  following. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

BETWEEN  EMMA  AND  DIANA. 

Diana  was  in  the  arms  of  her  friend  at  a  late  hour  of  the 
evening,  and  Danvers  breathed  the  amiable  atmosphere  of 
footmen  once  more,  professing  herself  perished.  This  maid 
of  the  world,  who  could  endure  hardships  and  loss  of  society 
for  the  mistress  to  whom  she  was  attached,  no  sooner  saw 
herself  surrounded  by  the  comforts  befitting  her  station  than 
she  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  a  wailful  dejeetedness,  the 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  105 

better  to  appreciate  them.  She  was  unaffectedly  astonished 
to  find  her  outcries  against  the  cold  and  the  joumeyings 
to  and  fro  interpreted  as  a  serving-woman's  muffled  com- 
ments on  her  mistress'  behavior.  Lady  Dunstane's  maid 
Bartlett;,  and  Mrs.  Bridges  the  housekeeper,  and  Foster  the 
butler,  contrived  to  let  her  know  that  they  could  speak  an 
if  they  would;  and  they  expressed  their  pity  of  her  to 
assist  her  to  begin  the  speaking.  She  bowed  in  acceptance 
of  Foster's  offer  of  a  glass  of  wine  after  supper,  but  treated 
him  and  the  other  two  immediately  as  though  they  had  been 
interrogating  bigwigs. 

"They  wormed  nothing  out  of  me/'  she  said  to  her  mis- 
tress at  night,  undressing  her.  "But  what  a  set  they  are! 
They've  got  such  comfortable  places,  they've  all  their  days 
and  hours  for  talk  of  the  doings  of  their  superiors.  They 
read  the  vilest  of  those  town  papers,  and  they  put  their  two 
and  two  together  of  what  is  happening  in  and  about.  And 
not  one  of  the  footmen  thinks  of  staying  because  it's  so 
dull;  and  they  and  the  maids  object — did  one  ever  hear? — 
to  the  three  uppers  retiring,  when  they've  done  dining,  to 
the  private  room  to  dessert." 

"That  is  the  custom,"  observed  her  mistress. 

"Foster  carries  the  decanter,  ma'am,  and  Mrs.  Bridges 
the  biscuits,  and  Bartlett  the  plate  of  fruit,  and  they  march 
out  in  order." 

"The  man  at  the  head  of  the  procession,  probably." 

"Oh,  yes.  And  the  others,  though  they  have  everything 
except  the  wine  and  dessert,  don't  like  it.  When  I  was  here 
last  they  were  new,  and  hadn't  a  word  against  it.  Now  they 
say  it's  invidious!  Lady  Dunstane  will  be  left  without  an 
under-servant  at  Copsley  soon.  I  was  asked  about  your 
boxes,  ma'am,  and  the  moment  I  said  they  were  at  Dover 
that  instant  all  three  peeped.  They  let  out  a  mouse  to  me. 
They  do  love  to  talk!" 

Her  mistress  could  have  added,  "And  you  too,  my  good 
Danvers!"  trustworthy  though  she  knew  the  creature  to  be 
in  the  main. 

"Now  go,  and  be  sure  you  have  bedclothes  enough  before 
you  drop  asleep,"  she  said;  and  Danvers  directed  her  steps 
to  gossip  with  Bartlett. 

Diana  wrapped  herself  in  a  dressing-gown  Lady  Dunstane 
had  sent  her,  and  sat  by  the  fire,  thinking  of  the  powder  of 


106  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

tattle  stored  in  servants'  halls  to  explode  beneath  her:  and 
but  for  her  choice  of  roads  she  might  have  been  among 
strangers.  The  liking  of  strangers  best  is  a  curious  exem- 
plification of  innocence. 

"Yes,  I  was  in  a  muse,"  she  said,  raising  her  head  to 
Emma,  whom  she  expected  and  sat  armed  to  meet,  un- 
accountably iron-nerved.  "I  was  questioning  whether  I  could 
be  quite  as  blameless  as  I  fancy  if  I  sit  and  shiver  to  be  in 
England.  You  will  tell  me  I  have  taken  the  right  road. 
I  doubt  it.  But  the  road  is  taken,  and  here  I  am.  But 
any  road  that  leads  me  to  you  is  homeward,  my  darling!'* 
She  tried  to  melt,  determining  to  be  at  least  open  with  her. 

"I  have  not  praised  you  enough  for  coming,"  said  Emma, 
when  they  had  embraced  again. 

"Praise  a  little  your  'truest  friend  of  women.'  Your  letter 
gave  the  tug.     I  might  have  resisted  it." 

"He  came  straight  from  heaven!  But,  cruel  Tony!  where 
is  your  love?" 

"It  is  unequal  to  yours,  dear,  I  see.     I  could  have  wrestled 

with  anything  abstract  and  distant,  from  being  certain . 

But  here  I  am." 

"But,  my  own  dear  girl,  you  never  could  have  allowed 
this  infamous  charge  to  be  undefended?" 

"I  think  so.  I've  an  odd  apathy  as  to  my  character; 
rather  like  death,  when  one  dreams  of  flying  the  soul.  What 
does  it  matter?  I  should  have  left  the  flies  and  wasps  to 
worry  a  corpse.  And  then,  good-bye  gentility!  I  should 
have  worked  for  my  bread.  I  had  thoughts  of  America.  I 
fancy  I  can  write,  and  Americans,  one  hears,  are  gentle  to 
women." 

"Ah,  Tony!  there's  the  looking  back.  And,  of  all  women, 
you!" 

"Or  else,  dear — well,  perhaps  once  on  foreign  soil,  in  a 
different  air,  I  might — might  have  looked  back,  and  seen  my 
whole  self,  not  shattered,  as  I  feel  it  now,  and  come  home 
again  compassionate  to  the  poor  persecuted  animal  to  defend 
her.  Perhaps  that  was  what  I  was  running  away  for.  I 
fled  on  the  instinct,  often  a  good  thing  to  trust." 

"I  saw  you  at  The  Crossways." 

"I  remembered  I  had  the  dread  that  you  would,  though 
I  did  not  imagine  you  would  reach  me  so  swiftly.  My  going 
there  was  an  instinct,  too.    I  suppose  we  are  all  instinct 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  107 

when  we  have  the  world  at  our  heels.  Forgive  me  if  I 
generalize  without  any  longer  the  right  to  be  included  in 
the  common  human  sum.  Tariah'  and  'taboo'  are  words 
we  borrow  from  barbarous  tribes;   they  stick  to  me." 

"My  Tony,  you  look  as  bright  as  ever,  and  you  speak 
despairingly." 

"Call  me  enigma.     I  am  that  to  myself,  Emmy." 

"You  are  not  quite  yourself  to  your  friend." 

"Since  the  blow  I  have  been  bewildered;  I  see  nothing 
upright.  It  came  on  me  suddenly;  stunned  me.  A  bolt  out 
of  a  clear  sky,  as  they  say.  He  spared  me  a  scene.  There 
had  been  threats,  and  yet  the  sky  was  clear,  or  seemed. 
AVhen  we  have  a  man  for  arbiter  he  is  our  sky." 

Emma  pressed  her  Tony's  unresponsive  hand,  feeling 
strangely  that  her  friend  ebbed  from  her. 

"Has  he  ....  to  mislead  him?"  she  said,  coloring  at 
the  breach  in  the  question. 

"Proofs?     He  has  the  proofs  he  supposes." 

"JSTot  to  justify  suspicion?" 

"He  broke  open  my  desk  and  took  my  letters." 

"Horrible!  But  the  letters?"  Emma  shook  with  a  ner- 
vous revulsion. 

"You  might  read  them." 

"Basest  of  men!  That  is  the  unpardonable  cowardice!" 
exclaimed  Emma. 

"The  world  will  read  them,  dear,"  said  Diana,  and  struck 
herself  to  ice. 

She  broke  from  the  bitter  frigidity  in  fury.  "They  are 
letters — none  very  long,  sometimes  two  short  sentences — he 
wrote  at  any  spare  moment.  On  my  honor,  as  a  woman, 
I  feel  for  him  most.  The  letters;  I  would  bear  any  accu- 
sation rather  than  that  exposure.  Letters  of  a  man  of  his 
age  to  a  young  woman  he  rates  too  highly!  The  world  reads 
them.  Do  you  hear  it  saying  it  could  have  excused  her  for 
that  fiddle-faddle  with  a  younger — a  young  lover?  And 
had  I  thought  of  a  lover  .  .  .  .  !  I  had  no  thought  of  lov- 
ing or  being  loved.  I  confess  I  was  flattered.  To  you, 
Emma,  I  wdll  confess.  .  .  .  You  see  the  public  ridicule!  and 
half  his  age,  he  and  I  would  have  appeared  a  romantic  couple! 
Confess,  I  said.  Well,  dear,  the  stake  is  lighted  for  a  trial 
of  its  effect  on  me.  It  is  this:  he  Avas  never  a  dishonorable 
friend;    but  men  appear  to  be  capable  of  friendship  with 


108  DIANA   OP    THE   CROSSWAYS. 

women  only  for  as  long  as  we  keep  out  of  pulling  distance 
of  that  line  where  friendship  ceases.  They  may  step  on  it; 
we  must  hold  back  a  league.  I  have  learnt  it.  You  will 
judge  whether  he  disrespects  me.  As  for  him,  he  is  a  man; 
at  his  worst,  not  one  of  the  worst;  at  his  best,  better  than 
very  many.  There,  now,  Emma,  you  have  me  stripped  and 
burning;  there  is  my  full  confession.  Except  for  this — yes, 
one  thing  further — that  I  do  rage  at  the  ridicule,  and  could 
choose,  but  for  you,  to  have  given  the  world  cause  to  revile 
me,  or  think  me  romantic.  Something  or  somebody  to  suffer 
for  would  really  be  agreeable.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  I  have 
not  known  what  this  love  is  that  they  talk  about.  And  be- 
hold me  marched  into  Smithfield!  society's  heretic,  if  you 
please.     I  must  own  I  think  it  hard." 

Emma  chafed  her  cold  hand  softly. 

"It  is  hard;  I  understand  it,"  she  murmured.  "And  is 
your  Sunday  visit  to  us  in  the  list  of  offenses?" 

"An  item." 

"You  gave  me  a  hapj)y  day." 

"Then  it  counts  for  me  in  Heaven." 

"He  set  spies  on  you?" 

"So  we  may  presume." 

Emma  went  through  a  sphere  of  tenuous  reflections  in  a 
flash. 

"He  will  rue  it.  Perhaps  now  ....  he  may  now  be 
regretting  his  wretched  frenzy.  And  Tony  could  pardon; 
she  has  the  pov/er  of  pardoning  in  her  heart." 

"Oh  certainly,  dear.  But  tell  me  why  it  is  you  speak 
to-night  rather  unlike  the  sedate,  philosophical  Emma;  in  a 
tone — well,  tolerably  sentimental?" 

"I  am  unaware  of  it,"  said  Emma,  who  could  have  retorted 
with  a  like  reproach.  "I  am  anxious,  I  will  not  say  at  pres- 
ent for  your  happiness,  for  5^our  peace,  and  I  have  a  hope 
that  possibly  a  timely  word  from  some  friend — Lukin  or 
another — might  induce  him  to  consider." 

"To  pardon  me,  do  you  mean?"  cried  Diana,  flushing 
sternly. 

"Not  pardon.     Suppose  a  case  of  faults  on  both  sides." 

"You  address  a  faulty  person,  my  dear.  But  djo  you  know 
that  you  are  hinting  at  a  reconcilement?" 

"Might  it  not  be?" 

"Open  your  eyes  to  what  it  involves.     I  trust  I  can  par- 


DIANA  OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  109 

don.  Let  liim  go  his  ways,  do  his  darkest,  or  repent.  But 
return  to  the  roof  of  the  ^basest  of  men/  who  was  guilty  of 
*the  unpardonable  cowardice'?  You  expect  me  to  be  super- 
human. When  I  consent  to  that  I  shall  be  out  of  my  woman's 
skin,  which  he  has  branded.  Go  back  to  him?"  She  was 
taken  with  a  shudder  of  head  and  limbs.  "No;  I  really 
have  the  power  of  pardoning,  and  I  am  bound  to:  for,  among 
my  debts  to  him,  this  present  exemption, — that  is  like  liberty 
dragging  a  chain,  or,  say,  an  escaped  felon  wearing  his 
manacles, — should  count.  I  am  sensible  of  my  obligation. 
The  price  I  pay  for  it  is  an  immovable  patch — attractive  to 
male  idiots,  I  have  heard,  and  a  mark  of  scorn  to  females. 
Between  the  two  the  remainder  of  my  days  will  be  lively. 
*Out,  out,  damned  spot!'  But  it  will  not.  x\nd  not  on  the 
hand — on  the  forehead!  We'll  talk  of  it  no  longer.  I  have 
sent  a  note,  with  an  inclosure,  to  my  lawyers.  I  sell  The 
Crossways,  if  I  have  the  married  woman's  right  to  any  scrap 
of  property,  for  money  to  scatter  fees." 

"My  purse,  dear  Tony!"  exclaimed  Emma.  "My  house! 
You  will  stay  with  me?  AVhy  do  you  shake  your  head? 
With  me  you  are  safe."  She  spied  at  the  shadows  in  her 
friend's  face.  "Ever  since  your  marriage,  Tony,  you  have 
been  strange  in  your  trick  of  refusing  to  stay  with  me.  And 
you  and  I  made  our  friendship  the  pledge  of  a  belief  in 
eternity!  We  vowed  it.  Come,  I  do  talk  sentimentally,  but 
my  heart  is  in  it.  I  beg  you — all  the  reasons  are  with  me — 
to  make  my  house  your  home.  You  will.  You  know  I  am 
rather  lonely." 

Diana  struggled  to  keep  her  resolution  from  being  broken 
by  tenderness.  And  doubtless  poor  Sir  Lukin  had  learnt  his 
lesson;  still,  her  defensive  instincts  could  never  quite  slum- 
ber under  his  roof;  not  because  of  any  further  fear  that  they 
would  have  to  be  summoned;  it  was  chiefly  owing  to  the 
consequences  of  his  treacherous  foolishness.  For  this  half- 
home  with  her  friend  thenceforward  denied  to  her,  she  had 
accepted  a  protector,  called  husband — rashly,  past  credence, 
in  the  retrospect;  but  it  had  been  her  propelling  motive; 
and  the  loathings  roused  by  her  marriage  helped  to  sicken 
her  at  the  idea  of  a  lengthened  stay  where  she  had  sufl;ered 
the  shock  precipitating  her  to  an  act  of  insanity. 

"I  do  not  forget  you  were  an  heiress,  Emmy,  and  I  will 
come  to  you  if  I  need  money  to  keep  my  head  up.     As  for 


110  DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

staying,  two  reasons  are  against  it.  If  I  am  to  fight  my 
battle  I  must  be  seen;  I  must  go  about — wherever  I  am 
received.  So  my  field  is  London.  That  is  obvious.  And  I 
shall  rest  better  in  a  house  where  my  story  is  not  known." 

Two  or  three  questions  ensued.  Diana  had  to  fortify  her 
fictitious  objection  by  alluding  to  her  maid's  prattle  of  the 
household  below;  and  she  excused  the  hapless,  overfed,  idle 
people  of  those  regions. 

To  Emma  it  seemed  a  not  unnatural  sensitiveness.  She 
came  to  a  settled  resolve  in  her  thoughts,  as  she  said,  "They 
want  a  change.     London  is  their  element." 

Feeling  that  she  deceived  this  true  heart,  however  lightly 
and  necessarily,  Diana  warmed  to  her,  forgiving  her  at  last 
for  having  netted  and  dragged  her  back  to  front  the  enemy; 
an  imposition  of  horrors  of  which  the  scene  and  the  traveling 
with  Eedworth,  the  talking  of  her  case  with  her  most  inti- 
mate friend  as  well,  had  been  a  distempering  foretaste. 

They  stood  up  and  kissed,  parting  for  the  night. 

An  odd  world,  where  for  the  sin  we  have  not  participated 
in  we  must  fib  and  continue  fibbing,  she  reflected.  She  did 
not  entirely  cheat  her  clearer  mind,  for  she  perceived  that 
her  step  in  flight  had  been  urged  both  by  a  weak  despondency 
and  a  blind  desperation;  also  that  the  world  of  a  fluid  civiliza- 
tion is  perforce  artificial.  But  her  mind  was  in  the  back- 
ground of  her  fevered  senses,  and  w^hen  she  looked  in  the 
glass  and  mused  on,  uttering  the  word  "Liar!"  to  the  lovely 
image,  her  senses  were  refreshed,  her  mind  somewhat  re- 
lieved, the  face  appeared  so  sovereignly  defiant  of  abasement. 

Thus  did  a  nature  distraught  by  pain  obtain  some  short 
lull  of  repose.  Thus,  moreover,  by  closely  reading  herself, 
whom  she  scourged  to  excess  that  she  might  in  justice  be 
comforted,  she  gathered  an  increasing  knowledge  of  our 
human  constitution,  and  stored  matter  for  the  brain. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
TOUCHING  THE  FIRST  DAYS  OF  HER  PROBATION. 

The  result  of  her  sleeping  was,  that  Diana's  humor,  locked 
up  over-night,  insisted  on  an  excursion,  as  she  lay  with 
half-buried  head  and  open  eyelids,  thinking  of  the  firm  of 


DIANA    OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  Ill 

lawyers  slie  had  to  see,  and  to  whom,  and  to  the  legal 
profession  generally,  she  would  be  under  outward  courtesies 
nothing  other  than  "the  woman  Warwick."  She  pursued 
the  woman  Warwick  unmercifully  through  a  series  of  inter- 
views with  her  decorous  and  crudely-minded  defenders;  ac- 
curately perusing  them  behind  their  senior  staidness.  Her 
scorching  sensitiveness  sharpened  her  intelligence  in  regard 
to  the  estimate  of  discarded  wives  entertained  by  men  of 
business  and  plain  men  of  the  world,  and  she  drove  the 
woman  Warwick  down  their  ranks,  amazed  by  the  vision  of 
a  puppet  so  unlike  to  herself  in  reality,  though  identical  in 
situation.  That  woman,  reciting  her  side  of  the  case,  gained 
a  gradual  resemblance  to  Dan  vers;  she  spoke  primly;  per- 
petually the  creature  aired  her  handkerchief;  she  was  bent 
on  softening  those  sugarloaves,  the  hard  business-men  apply- 
ing to  her  for  facts.  Facts  were  treated  as  unworthy  of  her; 
mere  stuff  of  the  dustheap,  mutton-bones,  old  shoes;  she 
swam  above  them  in  a  cocoon  of  her  spinning,  sylphidine, 
unseizable;  and,  between  perplexing  and  mollifying  the  slaves 
of  facts,  she  saw  them  at  their  heels,  a  tearful  fry,  abjectly 
imitative  of  her  melodramatic  performances.  The  spectacle 
was  presented  of  a  band  of  legal  gentlemen  vociferating 
mightily  for  swords  and  the  onset,  like  the  Austrian  em- 
press' Magyars,  to  vindicate  her  just  and  holy  cause.  Our 
law-courts  failing,  they  threatened  Parliament,  and,  for  a  last 
resort,  the  country!  We  are  not  going  to  be  the  woman 
Warwick  without  a  stir,  my  brethren. 

Emma,  an  early  riser  that  morning,  for  the  purpose  of  a 
private  consultation  with  Mr.  Redworth,  found  her  lying 
placidly  wakeful,  to  judge  by  appearances. 

"You  have  not  slept,  my  dear  child?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Diana,  giving  her  hand  and  offering  the 
lips.  "I'm  only  having  a  warm  morning  bath  in  bed,"  she 
added,  in  explanation  of  a  chill  moisture  that  the  touch  of 
her  exposed  ski-n  betrayed:  for,  whatever  the  fun  of  the 
woman  Warwick,  there  had  been  sympathetic  feminine  horrors 
in  the  frame  of  the  sentient  woman. 

Emma  fancied  she  kissed  a  quiet  sufferer.  A  few  remarks 
very  soon  set  her  wildly  laughing.  Both  were  laughing  when 
Danvers  entered  the  room,  rather  guilty,  being  late;  and 
the  sight  of  the  prim-visaged  maid  she  had  been  driving 
among  the  lawyers  kindled  Diana's  comic  imagination  to 


112  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

such  a  pitch,  that  she  ran  riot  in  drolleries,  carrying  her 
friend  headlong  on  the  tide. 

"I  have  not  laughed  so  much  since  you  were  married/' 
said  Emma. 

"ISTor  I,  dear; — proving  that  the  bar  to  it  was  the  cere- 
mony/' said  Diana. 

She  promised  to  remain  at  Copsley  three  days.  "Then 
for  the  campaign  in  Mr.  Redworth's  metropolis.  I  wonder 
whether  I  may  ask  him  to  get  me  lodgings;  a  sitting-room 
and  two  bed-rooms.  The  Crossways  has  a  board  up  for 
letting.  I  should  prefer  to  be  my  own  tenant,  only  it  would 
give  me  a  hundred  pounds  more  to  get  a  substitute's  money! 
I  should  like  to  be  at  work  writing  instantly.  Ink  is  my 
opium,  and  the  pen  my  nigger,  and  he  must  dig  up  gold  for 
me.  It  is  written.  Danvers,  you  can  make  ready  to  dress 
me  when  I  ring." 

Emma  helped  the  beautiful  woman  to  her  dressing-gown 
and  the  step  from  her  bed.  She  had  her  thoughts,  and 
went  down  to  Redworth  at  the  breakfast-table,  marveling 
that  any  husband  other  than  a  madman  could  cast  such  a 
jewel  away.  The  material  loveliness  eclipses  intellectual 
qualities  in  such  reflections. 

"He  must  be  mad/'  she  said,  compelled  to  disburden  her- 
self in  a  congenial  atmosphere;  which,  however,  she  infri- 
gidated  by  her  overflow  of  exclamatory  wonderment — a  cur- 
tain that  shook  voluminous  folds,  luring  Redworth  to  dreams 
of  the  treasure  forfeited.     He  became  rigidly  practical. 

"Provision  will  have  to  be  made  for  her.  Lukin  must 
see  Mr.  Warwick.  She  will  do  wisely  to  stay  with  friends 
in  town,  mix  in  company.  Women  are  the  best  allies  for 
such  cases.     Who  are  her  solicitors?" 

"They  are  mine:     Braddock,  Thorpe,  and  Simnel." 

"A  good  firm.  She  is  in  safe  hands  with  them.  I  dare- 
say they  may  come  to  an  arrangement." 

"I  should  wish  it.     She  will  never  consent." 

Redworth  shrugged.  A  woman's  "never"  fell  far  short 
of  outstripping  the  sturdy  pedestrian  Time,  to  his  mind. 

Diana  saw  him  drive  off  to  catch  the  coach  in  the  valley, 
regulated  to  meet  the  train,  and,  much  though  she  liked  him, 
she  was  not  sorry  that  he  had  gone.  She  felt  the  better 
clad  for  it.  She  would  have  rejoiced  to  witness  the  de- 
parture on  wings  of  all  her  friends,  except  Emma,  to  whom 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  113 

her  coldness  overnight  had  bound  her  anew  warmly  in  con- 
trition. And  yet  her  friends  were  well-beloved  by  her;  but 
her  emotions  were  distraught. 

Emma  told  her  that  Mr.  Eedworth  had  undertaken  to 
hire  a  suit  of  convenient  rooms,  and  to  these  she  looked 
forward,  the  nest  among  strangers,  where  she  could  begin  to 
write,  earning  bread:  an  idea  that,  with  the  pride  of  inde-  (^ 
pendence,  conjured  the  pleasant  morning  smell  of  a  bakery 
about  her. 

She  passed  three  peaceable  days  at  Copsle}^  at  war  only 
with  the  luxury  of  the  house.  On  the  fourth  a  letter  to 
Lady  Dunstane  from  Eedworth  gave  the  address  of  the  best 
lodgings  he  could  find,  and  Diana  started  for  London. 

She  had  duiing  a  couple  of  weeks,  besides  the  first  fresh 
exercising  of  her  pen,  as  well  as  the  severe  gratification  of 
economy,  a  savage  exultation  in  passing  through  the  streets 
on  foot  and  unknown.  Save  for  the  plunges  into  the  office 
of  her  solicitors,  she  could  seem  to  herself  a  woman  who  had 
never  submitted  to  the  yoke.  What  a  pleasure  it  was,  after 
finishing  a  number  of  pages,  to  start  eastward  toward  the 
lawyer-regions,  full  of  imaginary  cropping  incidents,  and 
from  that  churchyard  westward,  against  smoky  sunsets,  or 
in  welcoming  fogs,  an  atom  of  the  crowd!  She  had  an 
affection  for  the  crowd.  They  clothed  her.  She  laughed  at 
the  gloomy  forebodings  of  Danvers  concerning  the  perils 
environing  ladies  in  the  streets  after  dark  alone.  The  lights 
in  the  streets  after  dark,  and  the  quick  running  of  her  blood, 
combined  to  strike  sparks  of  fancy  and  inspirit  the  task  of 
composition  at  night.  This  new,  strange,  solitary  life,  cut 
off  from  her  adulatory  society,  both  by  the  shock  that  made 
the  abyss  and  by  the  utter  f  oreignness,  threw  her  in  upon  her 
natural  forces,  recasting  her,  and  thinning  away  her  memory 
of  her  past  days,  excepting  girlhood,  into  the  remote.  She 
lived  with  her  girlhood  as  with  a  simple  little  sister.  They 
were  two  in  one,  and  she  corrected  the  dreams  of  the  younger, 
protected  and  counseled  her  very  sagely,  advising  her  to 
love  Truth  and  look  always  to  Eeality  for  her  refreshment. 
She  was  ready  to  say  that  no  habitable  spot  on  our  planet 
was  healthier  and  pleasanter  than  London.  As  to  the  perils 
haunting  the  head  of  Danvors,  her  experiences  assured  her 
of  a  perfect  immunity  from  them;  and  the  maligned  thorough- 


^ 


114  /  DIANA    OF   THE    CR03SWAYS. 


fares  of  a  great  city,  she  was  ready  to  affirm,  contrasted 
favorably  with  certain  hospitable  halls. 

The  long-suffering  Fates  permitted  her  for  a  term  to 
enjoy  the  generous  delusion.  Subsequently  a  sweet  surprise 
alleviated  the  shock  she  had  sustained.  Emma  Dunstane's 
carriage  was  at  her  door,  and  Emma  entered  her  sitting- 
room,  to  tell  her  of  having  hired  a  house  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, looking  on  the  Park.  She  begged  to  have  her  for 
guest,  sorrowfully  anticipating  the  refusal.  At  least  they 
were  to  be  near  one  another. 

"You  really  like  this  life  in  lodgings?'^  asked  Emma,  to 
whgm  the  stiff  furniture  and  narrow  apartments  were  a 
dreariness,  the  miserably  small  fire  of  the  sitting-room  an 
aspect  of  cheerless  winter. 

"I  do,"  said  Diana;  "yes,"  she  added  with  some  reserve, 
and  smiled  at  her  damped  enthusiasm,  "I  can  eat  when  I 
like,  walk,  work — and  I  am  working!  My  legs  and  my  pen 
demand  it.  Let  me  be  independent!  Besides,  I  begin  to 
learn  something  of  the  bigger  world  outside  the  one  I  know, 
and  I  crush  my  mincing  tastes.  In  return  for  that  I  get  a 
sense  of  strength  I  had  not  when  I  was  a  drawing-room 
exotic.  Much  is  repulsive.  But  I  am  taken  with  a  passion 
for  reality." 

They  spoke  of  the  lawyers,  and  the  calculated  period  of 
the  trial;  of  the  husband  too,  and  his  inciting  belief  in  the 
falseness  of  his  wife.  "That  is  his  excuse,"  Diana  said,  her 
closed  mouth  meditatively  dimpling  the  corners  over 
thoughts  of  his  grounds  for  fury.  He  had  them,  though 
none  for  the  incriminating  charge.  The  sphinx  mouth  of 
the  married  woman  at  war  and  at  bay  must  be  left  unriddled. 
She  and  the  law  differed  in  their  interpretation  of  the  dues 
of  wedlock. 

But  matters  referring  to  her  case  were  secondary  with 
Diana  beside  the  importance  of  her  storing  impressions.  Her 
mind  required  to  hunger  for  something;  and  this  reality, 
which  frequently  she  was  forced  to  loathe,  she  forced  herself 
proudly  to  accept,  despite  her  youthfulness.  Her  philosophy 
swallowed  it  in  the  lump,  as  the  great  serpent  his  meal;  she 
hoped  to  digest  it  sleeping  likewise.  Her  visits  of  curiosity 
to  the  Law  Courts,  where  she  stood  spying  and  listening 
behind  a  veil,  gave  her  a  great  deal  of  tough  substance  to 
digest.     There  she  watched  the  process  of  the  tortures  to  be 


DIANA   OF   THE    CBOSSWAYS.  115 

applied  to  herself,  and  hardened  her  senses  for  the  ordeal. 
She  saw  there  the  ribbed  and  shanked  old  skeleton  world  on 
which  our  fair  fleshly  is  moulded.  After  all,  your  Fool's 
Paradise  is  not  a  garden  to  grow  in.  Charon's  ferry-boat  is 
not  thicker  with  phantoms.  They  do  not  live  in  mind  or 
soul.  Chiefly  women  people  it:  a  certain  class  of  limp  men; 
women  for  the  most  part:  they  are  sown  there.  And  put 
their  garden  under  the  magnifying  glass  of  intimacy,  what 
do  we  behold?  A  world  not  better  than  the  world  it  cur- 
tains, only  foolisher. 

Her  conversations  with  Lady  Dunstane  brought  her  at 
last  to  the  point  of  her  damped  enthusiasm.  She  related  an 
incident  or  two  occurring  in  her  career  of  independence,  and 
they  discussed  our  state  of  civilization  plainly  and  gravely, 
save  for  the  laughing  peals  her  phrases  occasionally  pro- 
voked; as  when  she  named  the  intruders  and  disturbers  of 
solitarily-faring  ladies,  "Cupid's  footpads."  Her  humor 
was  created  to  swim  on  waters  where  a  prescribed  and  culti- 
vated prudery  should  pretend  to  be  drowning. 

"I  was  getting  an  exalted  idea  of  English  gentlemen, 
Emmy.  ^Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore.'  I  was 
ready  +o  vow  that  one  might  traverse  the  larger  island  simi- 
larly respected.  I  praised  their  chivalry.  I  thought  it  a 
privilege  to  live  in  such  a  land.  I  cannot  describe  to  you 
how  delightful  it  was  tu  me  to  walk  out  and  home  generally 
protected.  I  might  have  been  seriously  annoyed  but  that 
one  of  tlip  clerks — ^articled,'  he  called  himself — of  our  law- 
yers happened  to  be  by.  He  offered  to  guard  me,  and  was 
amusing  with  his  modest  tiptoe  air.  No,  I  trust  to  the  Eng- 
lish common  man  more  than  ever.  He  is  a  man  of  honor. 
I  am  convinced  he  is  matchless  in  any  other  country,  except 
Ireland.     The  English  gentleman  trades  on  his  reputation." 

He  was  condemned  by  an  afflicted  delicacy,  the  sharpest  of 
critical  tribunals. 

Emma  bade  her  not  to  be  too  sweeping  from  a  bad 
example. 

"It  is  not  a  single  one,"  said  Diana.  "What  vexes  me 
and  frets  me  is,  that  I  must  be  a  prisoner,  or  allow  Danvers 
to  mount  guard.  And  I  can't  see  the  end  of  it.  And  Dan- 
vers is  no  magician.  She  seems  to  know  her  countrymen, 
though.  She  warded  one  of  them  off  by  saying  to  me: 
*This  is  the  crossing,  my  lady.'    He  fled." 


116  DIANA  OF   THE   CR09SWAYS. 

Lady  Dunstane  affixed  the  proper  title  to  the  latter  kind 
of  gentleman.  She  was  irritated  on  her  friend's  behalf,  and 
against  the  worrying  of  her  sisterhood;  thinking  in  her 
heart,  nevertheless,  that  the  passing  of  a  face  and  figure  like 
Diana's  might  inspire  honorable  emotions,  pitiable  for  being 
hapless. 

"If  you  were  with  me,  dear,  you  would  have  none  of  these 
annoyances,"  she  said,  pleading  forlornly. 

Diana  smiled  to  herself.  "No;  I  should  relapse  into 
softness.  This  life  exactly  suits  my  present  temper.  My 
landlady  is  respectful  and  attentive;  the  little  housemaid  is 
a  willing  slave;  Danvers  does  not  despise  them  pugnaciously; 
they  make  a  home  for  me,  and  I  am  learning  daily.  Do 
you  know,  the  less  ignorant  I  become  the  more  considerate 
I  am  for  the  ignorance  of  others — I  love  them  for  it."  She 
squeezed  Emma's  hand  with  more  meaning  than  her  friend 
apprehended.  "So  I  win  my  advantage  from  the  trifles  I  have 
to  endure.  They  are  really  trifles,  and  I  should  once  have 
thought  them  mountains!" 

For  the  moment  Diana  stipulated  that  she  might  not  have 
to  encounter  friends  or  others  at  Lady  Dunstane's  dinner- 
table,  and,  the  season  not  being  favorable  to  those  gatherings 
planned  by  Lady  Dunstane  in  her  project  of  winning  support- 
ers, there  was  a  respite,  during  which  Sir  Lukin  worked  man- 
fully at  his  three  clubs  to  vindicate  Diana's  name  from  the 
hummers  and  hawers,  gaining  half-a-dozen  hot  adherents,  and 
a  body  of  lukewarm,  sufficiently  stirred  to  be  desirous  to  see 
the  lady.  He  worked  with  true  champion  zeal,  although  an 
interview  granted  him  by  the  husband  settled  his  opinion 
as  to  any  possibility  of  the  two  ever  coming  to  terms.  Also 
it  struck  him  that  if  he  by  misadventure  had  been  a  woman 
and  the  wife  of  such  a  fellow,  by  Jove!  ...  his  apostro- 
phe to  the  father  of  the  gods  of  pagandom  signifying  the 
amount  of  matter  Warwick  would  have  had  reason  to  com- 
plain of  in  earnest.  By  ricochet  his  military  mind  rebounded 
from  his  knowledge  of  himself  to  an  ardent  faith  in  Mrs.  War- 
wick's innocence;  for,  as  there  was  no  resemblance  between 
them,  there  must,  he  deduced,  be  a  difference  in  their  ca- 
pacity for  enduring  the  perpetual  company  of  a  prig,  a  stick, 
and  a  petrified  poser.  Moreover,  the  novel  act  of  advocacy, 
and  the  nature  of  the  advocacy,  had  effect  on  him.  And  then 
he  recalled  the  scene  in  the  winter  beech-woods,  and  Diana's 


DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  117 

wild-deer  eyes;  her  perfect  generosity  to  a  traitor  and  fool. 
How  could  he  have  doubted  her?  Glimpses  of  the  corrupt- 
ing cause  for  it  partly  penetrated  his  density:  a  conqueror 
of  ladies,  in  mid-career,  doubts  them  all.  Of  course  he  had 
meant  no  harm,  nothing  worse  than  some  pretty  philander- 
ing with  the  loveliest  woman  of  her  time.  And,  by  Jove!  it 
was  worth  the  rebuff  to  behold  the  Beauty  in  her  wrath. 

The  reflections  of  Lothario,  however  much  tending  tardily 
to  do  justice  to  a  particular  lady,  cannot  terminate  whole- 
somely. But  he  became  a  gallant  partisan.  His  portrayal 
of  Mr.  Warwick  to  his  wife  and  his  friends  was  fine  carica- 
ture. "The  fellow  had  his  hand  up  at  my  first  word — stood 
like  a  sentinel  under  inspection.  ^Understand,  Sir  Lukin, 
that  I  receive  you  simply  as  an  acquaintance.  As  an  inter- 
mediary, permit  me  to  state  that  you  are  taking  superfluous 
trouble.  The  case  must  proceed.  It  is  final.  She  is  at 
liberty,  in  the  meantime,  to  draw  on  my  bankers  for  the  pro- 
vision she  may  need,  at  the  rate  of  five  hundred  pounds  per 
annum.'  He  spoke  of  ^the  lady  now  bearing  my  name.'  He 
was  within  an  inch  of  saying  ^dishonoring.'  I  swear  I 
heard  the  ^dis,'  and  he  caught  himself  up.  He  %gain  de- 
clined any  attempt  toward  reconcilliation.'  It  could  'only 
be  founded  on  evasion  of  the  truth  to  be  made  patent  on  the 
day  of  trial.'  Half  his  talk  was  lawyers'  lingo.  The  fellow's 
teeth  looked  like  frost.  If  Lot's  wife  had  a  brother  his  name's 
Warwick.  How  Diana  Merion,  who  could  have  had  the  pick 
of  the  best  of  us,  ever  came  to  marry  a  fellow  like  that, 
passes  my  comprehension,  queer  creatures  as  women  are!  He 
can  ride;  that's  about  all  he  can  do.  I  told  him  Mrs.  War- 
wick had  no  thought  of  reconciliation.  'Then,  Sir  Lukin, 
you  will  perceive  that  we  have  no  standpoint  for  a  discus- 
sion.' I  told  him  the  point  was,  for  a  man  of  honor  not  to 
drag  his  wife  before  the  public,  as  he  had  no  case  to  stand 
on — less  than  nothing.  You  should  have  seen  the  fellow's 
face.  He  shot  a  sneer  up  to  his  eyelids,  and  flung  his  head 
back.  So  I  said,  'Good  day.'  He  marches  me  to  the  door, 
'With  his  compliments  to  Lady  Dunstane.'  I  could  have 
floored  him  for  that.  Bless  my  soul!  what  fellows  the  world 
is  made  of,  when  here's  a  man,  calling  himself  a  gentleman, 
who,  just  because  he  gets  in  a  rage  with  his  wife  for  one 
thing  or  another — and  past  all  competition  the  handsomest  <^ 
woman  of  her  day,  and  the  cleverest,  the  nicest,  the  best  of  the 


118  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

whole  boiling — ^has  her  out  for  a  public  horse-whipping,  and 
sets  all  the  idiots  of  the  kingdom  against  her!  I  tried  to  rea- 
son with  him.  He  made  as  if  he  were  going  to  sleep  stand- 
ing/' 

Sir  Lukin  gratified  Lady  Dunstane  by  his  honest  cham- 
pionship of  Diana.  And  now,  in  his  altered  mood  (the  thrice- 
indebted  rogue  was  just  cloudily  conscious  of  a  desire  to  pro- 
pitiate his  dear  wife  by  serving  her  friend),  he  began  a  cru- 
sade against  the  scandal-newspapers,  going  with  an  Irish 
military  comrade  straight  to  the  editorial  offices,  and  leaving 
his  card  and  a  warning  that  the  chastisement  for  print  of  the 
name  of  the  lady  in  their  columns  would  be  personal  and  con- 
dign. Captain  Carew  Mahoney,  albeit  unacquainted  with 
Mrs.  "Warwick,  had  espoused  her  cause.  She  was  a  woman — 
she  was  an  Irishwoman — she  was  a  beautiful  woman.  She 
had,  therefore,  three  positive  claims  on  him  as  a  soldier  and 
a  man.  Other  Irish  gentlemen,  animated  by  the  same  swelling 
degrees,  were  awaking  to  the  intimation  that  they  might  be 
wanted.  Some  words  were  dropped  here  and  there  by  Major- 
Gen  eral  Lord  Larrian:  he  regretted  his  age  and  infirmities. 
A  goodly  regiment  for  a  bodyguard  might  have  been  selected 
to  protect  her  steps  in  the  public  streets,  when  it  was  bruited 
that  the  General  had  sent  her  a  present  of  his  great  Newfound- 
land dog,  Leander,  to  attend  on  her  and  impose  a  required  re- 
spect. But,  as  it  chanced  that  her  address  was  unknown  to  the 
volunteer  constabulary  they  had  to  assuage  their  ardor  by 
thinking  the  dog  luckier  than  they. 

The  report  of  the  dog  was  a  fact.  He  arrived  one  morning 
at  Diana^s  lodgings,  with  a  soldier  to  lead  him,  and  a  card  to 
introduce:  the  Hercules  of  dogs,  a  very  ideal  of  the  species, 
toweringly  big,  benevolent,  reputed  a  rescuer  of  lives,  dis- 
dainful of  dog-fighting,  devoted  to  his  guardian's  office,  with 
a  majestic  paw  to  give,  and  the  noblest  satisfaction  in  re- 
ceiving caresses  ever  expressed  by  mortal  male  enfolded  about 
the  head,  kissed,  patted,  hugged,  snuggled,  informed  that  he 
was  his  new  mistress'  one  love  and  darling. 

She  dispatched  a  thrilling  note  of  thanks  to  Lord  Larrian, 
sure  of  her  touch  upon  an  Irish  heart. 

The  dog  Leander  soon  responded  to  the  attachment  of  a 
mistress  enamored  of  him.  "He  is  my  husband,"  she  said  to 
Emma,  and  started  a  tear  in  the  eyes  of  her  smiling  friend; 
"he  promises  to  trust  me,  and  never  to  have  the  law  of  me, 


DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  119 

and  to  love  my  friends  as  my  own;  so  we  are  certain  to  agree." 
In  rain,  snow,  sunshine,  through  the  parks  and  the  streets, 
he  was  the  shadow  of  Diana,  commanding,  on  the  whole,  apart 
from  some  desperate  attempts  to  make  him  serve  as  intro- 
ducer, a  civilized  behavior  in  the  legions  of  Cupid's  footpads. 
But  he  helped,  innocently  enough,  to  create  an  enemy. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

GIVING  GLIMPSES  OF  DIANA  UNDER  HER  CLOUD  BEFORE 
THE  WORLD  AND  OF  HER  FURTHER 
APPRENTICESHIP. 

As  the  day  of  her  trial  became  more  closely  calculable, 
Diana's  anticipated  alarms  receded  with  the  deadening  of 
her  heart  to  meet  the  shock.  She  fancied  she  had  put  on 
proof-armor,  unconscious  that  it  was  the  turning  of  the  in- 
ward flutterer  to  steel  w^hich  supplied  her  cuirass  and  shield. 
The  necessity  to  brave  society,  in  the  character  of  honest  De- 
fendant, caused  but  a  momentary  twitch  of  the  nerves.  Her 
heart  beat  regularly,  like  a  serviceable  clock;  none  of  her 
faculties  abandoned  her  save  songfulness,  and  none  belied 
her,  excepting  a  disposition  to  tartness  almost  venomous 
in  the  sarcastic  shafts  she  let  fly  at  friends  interceding  with 
Mr.  Warwick  to  spare  his  wife,  when  she  had  determined  to 
be  tried.  A  strange  fit  of  childishness  overcame  her  powers 
of  thinking,  and  was  betrayed  in  her  manner  of  speaking, 
though  to  herself  her  dwindled  humor  allowed  her  to  appear 
the  towering  Britomart.  She  pouted  contemptuously  on  hear- 
ing that  a  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  (a  remotely  recollected  figure) 
had  besought  Mr.  Warwick  for  an  interview,  and  gained  it,  by 
stratagem,  "to  bring  the  man  to  his  senses":  but  an  ultra- 
Irishman  did  not  compromise  her  battle-front  as  the  busy- 
body supplications  of  a  personal  friend  like  Mr.  Redworth 
did;  and  that  the  latter,  without  consulting  her,  should  be 
"one  of  the  plaintive  crew  whining  about  the  heels  of  the 
Plaintiff  for  a  mercy  she  disdained  and  rejected,"  was  bitter  to 
her  taste. 

"He  does  not  see  that  unless  I  go  through  the  fire  there 
is  no  justification  for  this  wretched  character  of  mine!"  she 


120  DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

exclaimed.  Truce,  treaty,  withdrawal,  signified  publicly  par- 
don, not  exoneration  by  any  means;  and  now  that  she  was  in 
armor  she  had  no  dread  of  the  public.  So  she  said,  Red- 
worth's  being  then  engaged  upon  the  canvass  of  a  borough 
added  to  the  absurdity  of  liis  meddling  with  the  dilemmas  of  a 
woman.  "Dear  me,  Emma!  think  of  stepping  aside  from 
the  parliamentary  road  to  entreat  a  husband  to  relent,  and 
arrange  the  domestic  alliance  of  a  contrary  couple.  Quix- 
otry is  agreeable  reading,  a  silly  performance."  Lady  Dun- 
stane  pleaded  his  friendship.  She  had  to  quit  the  field  where 
such  darts  were  shov^ering. 

The  first  dinner-party  was  aristocratic,  easy  to  encounter. 
Lord  and  Lady  Crane,  Lady  Pennon,  Lord  and  Lady  Esquart, 
Lord  Larrian,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montvert  of  Halford  Manor, 
Lady  Singleby,  Sir  Walter  Capperston:  friends,  admirers  of 
Diana;  patrons,  in  the  phrase  of  the  time,  of  her  father,  were 
the  guests.  Lady  Pennon  expected  to  be  amused,  and  was 
gratified,  for  Diana  had  only  to  open  her  mouth  to  set  the 
great  lady  laughing.  She  petitioned  to  have  Mrs.  Warwick 
at  her  table  that  day  week,  because  the  marquis  was  dying 
to  make  her  acquaintance,  and  begged  to  have  all  her  sayings 
repeated  to  him;  vowed  she  must  be  salt  in  the  desert.  "And 
remember,  I  back  you  through  thick  and  thin,"  said  Lady 
Pennon.  To  which  Diana  replied:  "If  I  am  salt  in  the  des- 
ert you  are  the  spring;"  and  the  old  lady  protested  she  must 
put  that  down  for  her  book.  The  witty  Mrs.  Warwick,  of 
whom  wit  was  expected,  had  many  incitements  to  be  guilty  of 
cheap  wit;  and  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Warwick,  being  able  to  pass 
anything  she  uttered,  gave  good  and  bad  alike,  under  the  im- 
pulsion to  give  out  something,  that  the  stripped  and  shiver- 
ing Mrs.  Warwick  might  find  a  cover  in  applause.  She  dis- 
covered the  social  uses  of  cheap  wit;  she  laid  ambushes  for 
anecdotes,  a  telling  form  of  it  among  a  people  of  no  conver- 
sational interlocution,  especially  in  the  circles  depending 
for  dialogue  upon  perpetual  fresh  supplies  of  scandal;  which 
have  plentiful  crops,  yet  not  sufficient.  The  old  dinner  and 
supper  tables  at  The  Crossways  furnished  her  with  an  abund- 
ant store;  and,  recollection  failing,  she  invented.  Irish  anec- 
dotes are  always  popular  in  England,  as  promoting,  besides 
the  wholesome  shake  of  the  sides,  a  kindly  sense  of  superior- 
ity. Anecdotes  also  are  portable,  unlike  the  lightning  flash, 
which  will  not  go  into  the  pocket;  they  can  be  carried  home, 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  121 

they  are  disbursable  at  other  tables.  These  were  Diana' s  weap- 
ons. She  was  perforce  the  actress  of  her  part.  In  happier 
times,  when  light  of  heart  and  natural,  her  vogue  had  not 
been  so  enrapturing.  Doubtless  Cleopatra  in  her  simple 
Egyptian  uniform  would  hardly  have  won  such  plaudits  as  her 
stress  of  barbaric  Oriental  splendors  evoked  for  her  on  the 
swan  and  serpent  Nile-barge — not  from  posterity  at  least.  It  is 
a  terrible  decree,  that  all  must  act  who  would  prevail;  and 
the  more  extended  the  audience  the  greater  need  for  the  mask 
and  buskin. 

From  Lady  Pennon's  table  Diana  passed  to  Lady  Crane's, 
Lady  Esquart's,  Lady  Singleby's,  the  Duchess  of  Raby's, 
warmly  clad  in  the  admiration  she  excited.  She  appeared  at 
Princess  Therese  Paryli's  first  ball  of  the  season,  and  had 
her  circle,  no\  of  worshipers  only.  She  did  not  dance.  The 
princess,  a  fair  Au?trian,  bencvok-nt  to  her  sisterhood,  an 
admirer  of  Diana's  contrasting  complexion,  would  have  had 
her  dance  once  in  a  quadrille  of  her  forming,  but  yielded  to 
the  mute  expression  of  the  refusal.  Wherever  Mrs.  Warwick 
went,  hex  arts  of  charming  were  addressed  to  the  women  Men 
may  be  counted  on  for  falling  bowled  over  by  a  handsome  face 
and  pointed  tongue;  women  require  some  wooing  from  their 
ensphered  and  charioted  sister,  particularly  if  she  is  clouded: 
and  old  women — excellent  buttresses — must  be  suavely  court- 
ed. Now,  to  woo  the  swimming  matron  and  court  the  set- 
tled dowager,  she  had  to  win  forgiveness  for  her  beauty;  and 
this  was  done,  easily  done,  by  forbearing  to  angle  with  it  in 
the  press  of  nibblers.  They  ranged  about  her,  individually  un- 
noticed. Seeming  unaware  of  its  effect  where  it  kindled,  she 
smote  a  number  of  musical  female  chords,  compassion  among 
them.  A  general  grave  affability  of  her  eyes  and  smiles  was 
taken  for  quiet  pleasure  in  the  scene.  Her  fitful  intentness 
of  look  when  conversing  with  the  older  ladies  told  of  the 
mind  within  at  work  upon  what  they  said,  and  she  was  care- 
ful that  plain  dialogue  should  make  her  comprehensible  to 
them.  Nature  taught  her  these  arts,  through  which  her  wit 
became  extolled  entirely  on  the  strength  of  her  reputation, 
and  her  beauty  did  her  service  by  never  taking  aim  abroad. 
They  are  the  woman's  arts  of  self-defense,  as  legitimately  and 
honorably  hers  as  the  manful  use  of  the  fists  with  a  coarser  sex. 
If  it  had  not  been  nature  that  taught  her  the  practice  of  them 
in  extremity,  the  sagacious  dowagers  would  have  seen  braz- 


122  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

enness  rather  than  innocence — or  an  excusable  indiscretion — 
in  the  part  she  was  performing.  They  are  not  lightly  duped 
by  one  of  their  sex.  Few  tasks  are  more  difficult  than  for  a 
young  woman  under  a  cloud  to  hoodwink  old  women  of  the 
world.  They  are  the  prey  of  financiers;  but  Time  has  pre- 
sented them  a  magic  ancient  glass  to  scan  their  sex  in. 

At  Princess  Paryli's  ball  two  young  men  of  singular  ele- 
gance were  observed  by  Diana,  little  though  she  concentered 
her  attention  on  any  figures  of  the  groups.  She  had  the  wom- 
an's faculty  (transiently  bestowed  by  perfervid  jealousy  upon 
men)  of  distinguishing  minutely  in  the  calmest  of  indifferent 
glances.  She  could  see  without  looking;  and  when  her  eyes 
were  wide  they  had  not  to  dwell  to  be  detective.  It  did  not 
escape  her  that  the  Englishman  of  the  two  hurried  for  the 
chance  of  an  introduction,  nor  that  he  suddenly,  after  put- 
ting a  question  to  a  man  beside  him,  retired.  She  spoke  of 
them  to  Emma  as  they  drove  home.  "The  princess'  partner 
in  the  first  quadrille.  .  .  .  Hungarian,  I  suppose?  He 
was  like  a  Tartar  modeled  by  a  Greek;  supple  as  the  Scyth- 
i^.n's  bow,  braced  as  the  string!  He  has  the  air  of  a  born 
horseman,  and  valses  perfectly.  I  won't  say  he  was  hand- 
somer than  a  young  Englishman  there,  but  he  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  soldierly  training.  How  different  is  that  quick 
springy  figure  from  our  young  men's  lounging  style!  It 
comes  of  military  exercise  and  discipline." 

"That  was  Count  Jochany,  a  cousin  of  the  princess,  and  a 
cavalry  officer,"  said  Emma.  "You  don't  know  the  other? 
I  am  sure  the  one  you  mean  must  be  Percy  Dacier." 

His  retiring  was  explained:  the  Hon.  Percy  Dacier  was 
the  nephew  of  Lord  Dannisburgh,  often  extolled  to  her  as 
the  promising  youngster  of  his  day,  with  the  reserve  that  he 
wasted  his  youth;  for  the  young  gentleman  was  decorous  and 
studious;  ambitious,  according  to  report;  a  politician  taking 
to  politics  much  too  seriously  and  exclusively  to  suit  his 
uncle's  pattern  for  the  early  period  of  life.  Uncle  and  nephew 
went  their  separate  ways,  rarely  meeting,  though  their  ex- 
change of  esteem  was  cordial. 

Thinking  over  his  abrupt  retirement  from  the  crowded  semi- 
circle, Diana  felt  her  position  pinch  her — she  knew  not  why. 

Lady  Dunstane  was  as  indefatigable  by  day  as  by  night 
in  the  business  of  acting  goddess  to  her  beloved  Tony,  whom 
she  assured  that  the  service,  instead  of  exhausting,  gave  her 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  123 

such  healthfulness  as  she  had  imagined  herself  to  have  lost 
for  ever.  The  word  was  passed,  and  invitations  poured  in  to 
choice  conversational  breakfasts,  private  afternoon  concerts, 
all  the  humming  season's  assemblies.  Mr.  Warwick's  treatment 
of  his  Avife  was  taken  by  implication  for  lunatic;  wherever 
she  was  heard  or  seen  he  had  no  case;  a  jury  of  some  hundreds 
of  both  sexes,  ready  to  be  sworn,  pronounced  against  him. 
Only  the  personal  enemies  of  the  lord  in  the  suit  presumed  to 
doubt,  and  they  exercised  the  discretion  of  a  minority. 

But  there  is  an  upper  middle  class  below  the  aristocratic, 
boasting  an  aristocracy  of  morals,  and  eminently  persuasive  of 
public  opinion,  if  not  commanding  it.  Previous  to  the  re- 
laxation, by  amendment,  of  a  certain  legal  process,  this  class 
was  held  to  represent  the  austerity  of  the  country.  At  pres- 
ent a  relaxed  austerity  is  represented;  and  still  the  bulk  of 
the  members  are  of  fair  repute,  though  not  quite  on  the  level 
of  their  pretensions.  They  were  then,  while  more  sharply  di- 
vided from  the  titular  superiors  they  are  socially  absorbing, 
very  powerful  to  brand  a  woman's  character,  whatever  her 
rank  might  be:  having  innumerable  agencies  and  avenues 
for  that  high  purpose,  to  say  nothing  of  the  printing-press. 
Lady  Dunstane's  anxiety  to  draw  them  over  to  the  cause  of  her 
friend  set  her  thinking  of  the  influential  Mrs.  Cramborne 
Wathin,  with  whom  she  wa^  distantly  connected;  the  wife  of 
a  potent  sergeant-at-law,  fast  mounting  to  the  Bench  and 
knighthood;  the  center  of  a  circle,  and  not  strangely,  that, 
despite  her  deficiency  in  the  arts  and  graces,  for  she  had 
wealth  and  a  cook,  a  husband  proud  of  his  wine-cellar,  and 
the  ambition  to  rule,  all  the  rewards,  together  with  the  ex- 
pectations, of  the  virtuous.  She  was  a  lady  of  incisive  fea- 
tures bound  in  stale  parchment.  Complexion  she  had  none, 
but  she  had  spotlessness  of  skin,  and  sons  and  daughters  just 
resembling  her,  like  cheaper  editions  of  a  precious  quarto  of 
a  perished  type.  You  discerned  the  imitation  of  the  type — 
you  acknowledged  the  inferior  compositor.  Mr.  Cramborne 
Wathin  was  by  birth  of  a  grade  beneath  his  \vife;  he  sprang 
(behind  a  curtain  of  horror)  from  tradesmen.  The  Bench  was 
in  designation  for  him  to  wash  out  the  stain;  but  his  children 
suffered  in  large  hands  and  feet,  short  legs,  excess  of  bone, 
prominences  misplaced.  Their  mother  inspired  them  care- 
fully with  the  religion  she  opposed  to  the  pretensions  of  a 
nobler  blood,  while  instilling  into  them  that  the  blood  they 


124  DIANA    OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

drew  from  her  was  territorial,  far  above  the  vulgar.  Her  ap- 
pearance and  her  principles  fitted  her  to  stand  for  the  Puritan 
rich  of  the  period,  emerging  by  the  aid  of  an  extending  wealth 
into  luxurious  worldliness,  and  retaining  the  maxims  of  their 
forefathers  for  the  discipline  of  the  poor  and  erring. 

Lady  Dunstane  called  on  her,  ostensibly  to  let  her  know 
she  had  taken  a  house  in  town  for  the  season,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  chat  Mrs.  Cramborne  Wathin  was  invited  to 
dinner.  "You  will  meet  my  dear  friend,  Mrs.  Warwick,^'  she 
said,  and  the  reply  was,  "Oh,  I  have  heard  of  her." 

The  formal  consultation  with  Mr.  Cramborne  Wathin  ended 
in  an  agreement  to  accept  Lady  Dunstane's  kind  invitation. 

Considering  her  husband's  plenitude  of  old  legal  anec- 
dotes, and  her  own  diHgent  perusal  of  the  funny  publications 
of  the  day,  that  she  might  be  on  the  level  of  the  wits  and 
celebrities  she  entertained,  Mrs.  Cramborne  Wathin  had  a 
right  to  expect  the  leading  share  in  the  conversation  to  which 
she  was  accustomed.  Every  honor  was  paid  to  them;  they 
met  aristocracy  in  the  persons  of  Lord  Larrian,  of  Lady 
Rockden,  Colonel  Purlby,  the  Pettigrews,  but  neither  of  them 
held  the  table  for  a  moment;  the  topics  flew,  and  were  no 
sooner  up  than  down;  they  were  unable  to  get  a  shot.  They 
had  to  eat  in  silence,  occas^'onally  grinning,  because  a  woman 
laboring  under  a  stigma  would  rattle-rattle,  as  if  the  laughter 
of  the  company  were  her  due  and  decency  beneath  her  notice. 
Some  one  alluded  to  a  dog  of  Mrs.  Warwick's,  whereupon  she 
trips  out  a  story  of  her  dog's  amazing  intelligence. 

"And  pray,"  said  Mrs.  Cramborne  Wathin  across  the  table, 
merely  to  slip  in  a  word,  "what  is  the  name  of  this  wonder- 
ful dog?" 

"His  name  is  Leander,"  said  Diana. 

"Oh,  Leander.  I  don't  think  I  hear  myself  calling  to  a 
dog  in  a  name  of  three  syllables.    Two  at  the  most." 

"No,  so  I  call  Hero!  if  I  want  him  to  come  immediately," 
said  Diana,  and  the  gentlemen,  to  Mrs.  Cramborne  Wathin's 
astonishment,  acclaimed  it.  Mr.  Eedworth,  at  her  elbow,  ex- 
plained the  point  to  her  disgust. 

That  was  Diana's  offense. 

If  it  should  seem  a  small  one,  let  it  be  remembered  that  a 
snub  was  intended,  and  was  foiled:  and  foiled  with  an  ap- 
parent simplicitj?^,  enough  to  exasperate  had  there  been  no 
laughter  of  men  to  back  the  countering  stroke.     A  woman 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  125 

under  a  cloud,  she  talked,  pushed  to  shine:  she  would  be 
lieard,  would  be  applauded.  Her  chronicler  must  likewise 
admit  the  error  of  her  giving  way  to  a  petty  sentiment  of 
antagonism  on  first  beholding  Mrs.  Cramborne  Wathin,  be- 
fore whom  she  at  once  resolved  to  be  herself,  for  a  holiday,  in- 
stead of  acting  demurely  to  conciliate.  Probably  it  was  an 
antagonism  of  race,  the  shrinking  of  the  skin  from  the  burr. 
But  when  Tremendous  Powers  are  invoked  we  should  treat 
any  simple  revulsion  of  our  blood  as  a  vice.  The  gods  of 
this  world's  contests  demand  it  of  us,  in  relation  to  them,  that 
the  mind,  and  not  the  instincts,  shall  be  at  work.  Other- 
wise the  course  of  a  prudent  policy  is  never  to  invoke  them, 
but  avoid. 

The  upper  class  was  gained  by  her  intrepidity,  her  charm, 
and  her  elsewhere  oifending  wit,  however  the  case  might  go. 
It  is  chivalrous,  but  not,  alas!  inflammable  in  support  of  in- 
nocence. The  class  below  it  is  governed  in  estimates  of  char- 
acter by  accepted  patterns  of  conduct;  yet  where  innocence 
under  persecution  is  believed  to  exist  the  members  animated 
by  that  belief  can  be  enthusiastic.  Enthusiasm  is  a  heaven- 
sent steeplechaser,  and  takes  a  flying  leap  of  the  ordinary 
barriers;  it  is  more  intrusive  than  chivalr}^  and  has  a  passion 
to  communicate  its  ardor.  Two  letters  from  stranger  ladies 
reached  Diana,  through  her  lawyers  and  Lady  Dunstane. 
Anonymous  letters,  not  so  welcome,  being  male  efi'usions,  ar- 
rived at  her  lodgings,  one  of  them  comical  almost  over  the 
verge  to  pathos  in  its  termination:  "To  me  you  will  ever  be 
the  Goddess  Diana — my  faith  in  woman !'^ 

He  was  unacquainted  with  her! 

She  had  not  the  heart  to  think  the  writers  donkeys.  How 
tliey  obtained  her  address  was  a  puzzle;  they  stole  in  to  com- 
fort her  slightly.  They  attached  her  to  her  position  of  De- 
fendant by  the  thought  of  what  would  have  been  the  idea  of 
her  character  if  she  had  flown — a  reflection  emanating  from 
inexperience  of  the  resources  of  sentimentalists. 

If  she  had  flown!  She  was  borne  along  by  the  tide  like  a 
butterfly  that  a  fish  may  gobble  unless  a  friendly  hand  should 
intervene.  And  could  it  in  nature?  She  was  past  expecta- 
tion of  release.  The  attempt  to  imagine  living  with  any 
warmth  of  blood  in  her  vindicated  character,  for  the  sake  of 
zealous  friends,  consigned  her  to  a  cold  and  empty  house  upon 
a  foreign  earth.  She  had  to  set  her  mind  upon  tlie  mysterious 


126  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

enshrouded  Twelve,  with  whom  the  verdict  would  soon  be 
hanging,  that  she  might  prompt  her  human  combativeness 
to  desire  the  vindication  at  such  a  price  as  she  would  have 
to  pay  for  it.  When  Emma  Dunstane  spoke  to  her  of  the  cer- 
tainty of  triumphing,  she  suggested  a  possible  dissentient 
among  the  fatal  Twelve,  merely  to  escape  the  drumming 
sound  of  that  hollow  big  word.  The  irreverent  imp  of  her 
humor  came  to  her  relief  by  calling  forth  the  Twelve,  in  the 
tone  of  the  clerk  of  the  court,  and  they  answered  to  their 
names  of  trades  and  crafts  after  the  manner  of  Titania's  elves, 
and  were  questioned  as  to  their  fitness — by  education,  habits, 
enlightenment — ^to  pronounce  decisively  upon  the  case  in  dis- 
pute, the  case  being  plainly  stated.  They  replied,  that  the 
long  habit  of  dealing  with  scales  enabled  them  to  weigh  the 
value  of  evidence  the  most  delicate.  Moreover,  they  were  Eng- 
lishmen, and  anything  short  of  downright  bullet  facts  went  to 
favor  the  woman.  For  thus  we  right  the  balance  of  legal  in- 
justice towards  the  sex:  we  conveniently  wink,  ma'am.  A 
rough,  old-fashioned  way  for  us!  Is  it  a  Breach  of  Promise? 
She  may  reckon  on  her  damages;  we  have  daughters  of  our 
own.  Is  it  a  suit  for  Divorce?  Well,  we  have  wives  of  our 
own,  and  we  can  lash  or  we  can  spare;  that's  as  it  may  be; 
but  we'll  keep  the  couple  tied,  let  'em  hate  as  they  like,  if 
they  can't  furnish  porkbutchers'  reasons  for  sundering,  be- 
cause the  man  makes  the  money  in  this  country.  My  good- 
ness! what  a  funny  people,  sir!  It's  our  way  of  holding  the 
balance,  ma'am.  But  would  it  not  be  better  to  rectify  the 
law  and  the  social  sj^stem,  dear  sir?  Why,  ma'am,  we  find  it 
comfortabler  to  take  cases  as  they  come,  in  the  style  of  our 
fathers.  But  don't  you  see,  my  good  man,  that  you  are  oifer- 
ing  scapegoats  for  the  comfort  of  the  majority?  Well,  ma'am, 
there  always  were  scapegoats,  and  always  will  be;  we  find  it 
comes  round  pretty  square  in  the  end. 

"And  I  may  be  the  scapegoat,  Emmy!  It  is  perfectly  pos- 
sible. The  grocer,  the  pork-butcher,  drysalter,  stationer,  tea- 
merchant,  et  cetera — they  sit  on  me.  I  have  studied  the  faces 
of  the  juries,  and  Mr.  Braddock  tells  me  of  their  composition. 
And  he  admits  that  they  do  justice  roughly — a  rough-and- 
tumble  country!  to  quote  him — ^though  he  says  they  are  hon- 
est in  intention." 

"More  shame  to  the  man  who  drags  yoni  before  them — if 
he  persists!"  Emma  rejoined. 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  127 

"He  will.  I  know  Mm.  I  would  not  have  him  draw  back 
now,"  said  Diana,  catching  her  breath.  "And,  dearest,  do  not 
abuse  him;  for,  if  you  do,  you  set  me  imagining  guiltiness. 
Oh,  Heaven! — suppose  me  publicly  pardoned!  No,  I  have 
kinder  feelings  when  we  stand  opposed.  It  is  odd,  and  rather 
frets  my  conscience,  to  think  of  the  little  resentment  I  feel. 
Hardly  any!  He  has  not  cause  to  like  his  wife.  I  can  own 
it,  and  I  am  sorry  for  him,  heartily.  No  two  have  ever  come 
together  so  naturally  antagonistic  as  we  two.  We  walked 
a  dozen  steps  in  stupefied  union,  and  hit  upon  crossways. 
From  that  moment  it  was  tug  and  tug;  he  me,  I  him.  By 
resisting,  I  made  him  a  tyrant;  and  he,  by  insisting,  made  me 
a  rebel.  And  he  was  the  maddest  of  tyrants — a  weak  one.  My 
dear,  he  was  also  a  double-dealer.  Or  no,  perhaps  not,  in  de- 
sign. He  was  moved  at  one  time  by  his  interests;  at  another 
by  his  idea  of  his  honor.  He  took  what  I  could  get  for  him, 
and  then  turned  and  drubbed  me  for  getting  it." 

"This  is  the  creature  you  try  to  excuse!"  exclaimed  in- 
dignant Emma. 

"Yes,  because — ^but  fancy  all  the  smart  things  I  said  being 
called  my  'sallies'! — can  a  woman  live  with  it? — because  I 
behaved.  .  .  I  despised  him  too  much,  and  I  showed  it. 
He  is  not  a  contemptible  man  before  the  world;  he  is  merely 
a  very  narrow  one  under  close  inspection.  I  could  not — or 
did  not — conceal  my  feeling.  I  showed  it  not  only  to  him,  to 
my  friend.  Husband  grew  to  mean  to  me  stifler,  lung-con- 
tractor, iron  mask,  inquisitor,  everything  anti-natural.  He 
suffered  under  my  *^sallies':  and  it  was  the  worse  for  him  when 
he  did  not  perceive  their  drift.  He  is  an  upright  man;  I 
have  not  seen  marked  meanness.  One  might  build  up  a  re- 
spectable figure  in  negatives.  I  could  add  a  row  of  noughts 
to  the  single  number  he  cherishes,  enough  to  make  a  million- 
aire of  him,  but  strike  away  the  first,  the  rest  are  wind. 
Which  signifies,  that  if  you  do  not  take  his  estimate  of  him- 
self you  will  think  little  of  his  negative  virtues.  He  is  not 
eminentl}^  that  is  to  say,  not  saliently,  selfish;  not  rancorous, 
not  obtrusive — ta-ta-ta-ta.  But  dull!— dull  as  a  woolen  night- 
cap over  eyes  and  ears  and  mouth.  Oh!  an  executioner's 
black  cap  to  me.  Dull,  and  suddenly  staring  awake  to  the 
idea  of  his  honor.  I  'rendered'  him  ridiculous — I  had  caught 
a  trick  of  'using  men's  phrases.'  Dearest,  now  that  the  day  of 
trial  draws  nigh — ^you  have  never  questioned  me,  and  it  was 


128  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

like  you  to  spare  me  pain — ^biit  now  I  can  speak  of  him 
and  myself/'  Diana  dropped  her  voice.  Here  was  another 
confession.  The  proximity  of  the  trial  acted  like  fire  on  her 
faded  recbllection  of  incidents.  It  may  be  that  partly  the 
shame  of  alluding  to  them  had  blocked  her  woman's  memory. 
For  one  curious  operation  of  the  charge  of  guiltiness  upon  the 
nearly  guiltless  is  to  make  them  paint  themselves  pure  white, 
to  the  obliteration  of  minor  spots,  until  the  whiteness  being 
acknowledged,  or  the  ordeal  imminent,  the  spots  recur  and 
press  upon  their  consciences.  She  resumed,  in  a  rapid  un- 
dertone: "You  know  that  a  certain  degree  of  independence 
had  been,  if  not  granted  by  him,  conquered  by  me.  I  had  the 
habit  of  it.  Obedience  with  him  is  imprisonment — he  is  a 
blind  wall.  He  received  a  commission,  greatly  to  his  ad- 
vantage, and  was  absent.  He  seems  to  have  received  informa- 
tion of  some  sort.  He  returned  unexpectedly,  at  a  late  hour, 
and  attacked  me  at  once,  middling  violent.  My  friend — and 
that  he  is! — was  coming  from  the  House  for  a  ten  minutes' 
talk,  as  usual,  on  his  way  home,  to  refresh  him  after  the  long 
sitting  and  bear-baiting  he  had  nightly  to  endure.  Now  let 
me  confess:  I  grew  frightened:  Mr.  Warwick  was  'off  his 
head,'  as  they  say — crazy,  and  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
those  two  meeting.  While  he  raged  I  threw  open  the  window 
and  put  the  lamp  near  it,  to  expose  the  whole  interior — cun- 
ning as  a  veteran  intriguer:  horrible!  but  it  had  to  be  done 
to  keep  them  apart.  He  asked  me  what  madness  possessed  me 
to  sit  by  an  open  window  at  midnight,  in  view  of  the  public, 
with  a  damp  wind  blowing.  I  complained  of  want  of  air  and 
fanned  my  forehead.  I  heard  the  steps  on  the  pavement;  I 
stung  him  to  retort  loudly,  and  I  was  relieved;  the  steps 
passed  on.  So  the  trick  succeeded — the  trick!  It  was  the 
worst  I  was  guilty  of,  but  it  was  a  trick,  and  it  branded  me 
trickster.  It  teaches  me  to  see  myself  with  an  abyss  in  my 
nature  full  of  infernal  possibilities.  I  think  I  am  hewn  in 
black  rock.  A  woman  who  can  do  as  I  did  by  instinct  needs 
to  have  an  angel  always  near  her,  if  she  has  not  a  husband  she 
reveres." 

"We  are  none  of  us  better  than  you,  dear  Tony;  only  some 
are  more  fortunate  and  many  are  cowards,"  Emma  said.  "You 
acted  prudently  in  a  wretched  situation,  partly  of  your  own 
making,  partly  of  the  circumstances.  But  a  nature  like 
yours  could  not  sit  still  and  moan.     That  marriage  was  to 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  f"""!^ 

.     \ .^^ 

blame!  The  English  notion  of  women  to  be  that  we  are  born 
white  sheep  or  black;  circumstances  have  nothing  to  do  with 
our  color.  They  dread  to  grant  distinctions,  and  to  judge  of 
us  discerningly  is  beyond  them.  Whether  the  fiction  that 
their  homes  are  purer  than  elsewhere  helps  to  establish  the 
fact  I  do  not  know:  there  is  a  class  that  does  live  honestly; 
and  at  any  rate  it  springs  from  a  liking  for  purity;  but  I  am 
sure  that  their  method  of  impressing  it  on  women  has  the 
dangers  of  things  artificial.  They  narrow  their  understand- 
ing of  human  nature,  and  that  is  not  the  way  to  improve  the 
breed." 

"I  suppose  we  women  are  taken  to  be  the  second  thoughts 
of  the  Creator;  human  nature's  fringes,  mere  finishing 
touches,  not  a  part  of  the  texture,"  said  Diana;  "the  pretty 
ornamentation.  However,  I  fancy  I  perceive  some  tolerance 
growing  in  the  minds  of  the  dominant  sex.  Our  old  lawyer 
Mr.  Braddock,  who  appears  to  have  no  distaste  for  conver- 
sations with  me,  assures  me  he  expects  the  day  to  come  when 
women  will  be  encouraged  to  work  at  crafts  and  professions 
for  their  independence.  That  is  the  secret  of  the  opinion  of 
us  at  present — our  dependency.  Give  us  the  means  of  in- 
dependence and  we  will  gain  it,  and  have  a  turn  at  judging 
you,  my  lords!  You  shall  behold  a  world  reversed.  When- 
ever I  am  distracted  by  existing  circumstances  I  lay  my  finger 
on  the  material  conditions,  and  I  touch  the  secret.  Individ- 
ually, it  may  be  moral  with  us;  collectively,  it  is  material — 
gross  wrongs,  gross  hungers.  I  am  a  married  rebel,  and 
thereof  comes  the  social  rebel.  I  was  once  a  dancing  and 
singing  girl.  You  remember  the  night  of  the  Dublin  ball. 
A  Channel  sea  in  uproar,  stirred  by  witches,  flows  between." 

"You  are  as  lovely  as  you  were  then;  I  could  say,  lovelier," 
said  Emma. 

"I  have  unconquerable  health,  and  I  wish  I  could  give  you 
the  half  of  it,  dear.  I  work  late  into  the  night,  and  I  wake 
early  and  fresh  in  the  morning.  I  do  not  sing,  that  is"  all.  A 
few  days  more,  and  my  character  will  be  up  before  the  Bull's 
Head  to  face  him  in  the  arena.  The  worst  of  a  position  like 
mine  is,  that  it  causes  me  incessantly  to  think  and  talk  of  my- 
self. I  believe  I  think  less  than  I  talk,  but  the  subject  is 
growing  stale;  as  those  who  are  long  dying  feel,  I  dare  say — 
if  they  do  not  take  it  as  the  compensation  for  their  departure." 

The  Bull's  Head,  or  British  Jury  of  Twelve,  with  the  wig 


130  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

on  it,  was  faced  during  the  latter  half  of  a  week  of  good 
news.  First,  Mr.  Thomas  Redworth  was  returned  to  Par- 
liament by  a  stout  majority  for  the  borough  of  Orrybridge; 
the  Hon.  Percy  Dacier  delivered  a  brilliant  speech  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  necessarily  pleasing  to  his  uncle;  Lord 
Larrian  obtained  the  command  of  the  Rock;  the  house  of 
The  Crossways  was  let  to  a  tenant  approved  by  Mr.  Brad- 
dock;  Diana  received  the  opening  proof-sheets  of  her  little 
volume,  and  an  installment  of  the  modest  honorarium;  and, 
finally,  the  Plaintiff  in  the  suit  involving  her  name  was  ad- 
judged to  have  not  proved  his  charge. 

She  heard  of  it  without  a  change  of  countenance. 

She  could  not  have  wished  it  the  reverse;  she  was  exone- 
rated. But  she  was  not  free — far  from  that;  and  she  re- 
venged herself  on  the  friends  who  made  much  of  her  triumph 
and  overlooked  her  plight  by  showing  no  sign  of  satisfaction. 
There  was  in  her  bosom  a  revolt  at  the  legal  consequences 
of  the  verdict — or  blunt  acquiescence  of  the  law  in  the  con- 
ditions possibly  to  be  imposed  on  her  unless  she  went  straight 
to  the  relieving  phial;  and  the  burden  of  keeping  it  under 
set  her  wildest  humor  alight,  somewhat  as  Redworth  remem- 
bered of  her  on  the  journey  from  The  Crossways  to  Cops- 
ley.  This  ironic  fury,  coming  of  the  contrast  of  the  outer 
and  the  inner,  would  have  been  indulged  to  the  extent  of 
permanent  injury  to  her  disposition  had  not  her  beloved 
Emma,  immediately  after  the  tension  of  the  struggle  ceased, 
required  her  tenderest  aid.  Lady  Dunstane  chanted  victory, 
and  at  night  collapsed.  By  the  advice  of  her  physician  she 
was  removed  to  Copsley,  where  Diana's  labor  of  anxious  nurs- 
ing restored  her  through  love  to  a  saner  spirit.  The  hope- 
fulness of  life  must  bloom  again  in  the  heart  whose  prayers 
are  offered  for  a  life  dearer  than  its  own  to  be  preserved.  A 
little  return  of  confidence  in  Sir  Lukin  also  refreshed  her 
when  she  saw  that  the  poor  creature  did  honestly,  in  his  shag- 
gy rough  male  fashion,  reverence  and  cling  to  the  flower  of 
souls  he  named  as  his  wife.  His  piteous  groans  of  self-ac- 
cusation during  the  crisis  haunted  her,  and  made  the  con- 
duct and  nature  of  men  a  bewilderment  to  her  still  young 
understanding.  Save  for  the  knot  of  her  sensations  (hardly 
a  mental  memory,  but  a  sullen  knot),  which  she  did  not  dis- 
entangle to  charge  him  with  his  complicity  in  the  blind  rash- 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  131 

ness  of  her  marriage,  she  might  have  felt  sisterly  as  warmly  as 
she  compassionated  him. 

It  was  midwinter  when  Dame  Gossip,  who  keeps  the  exotic 
world  alive  with  her  fanning  whispers,  related  that  the  lovely 
Mrs.  Warwick  had  left  England  on  board  the  schooner-yacht 
Clarissa,  with  Lord  and  Lady  Esqnart,  for  a  voyage  in  the 
Mediterranean;  and  (behind  her  hand)  that  the  reason  was 
urgent,  inasmuch  as  she  fled  to  escape  the  meshes  of  the 
ierrjilc  net  of  the  marital  law,  brutally  whirled  to  capture  her 
by  the  man  her  husband. 


CHAPTER   XV. 
INTRODUCES  THE  HON.  PERCY  DACIER. 

The  gods  of  this  world's  contests,  against  whom  our  poor 
stripped  individual  is  commonly  in  revolt,  are,  as  we  know, 
not  miners,  they  are  reapers;  and,  if  we  appear  no  longer  on 
the  surface,  they  cease  to  bruise  us;  they  will  allow  an  arena 
character  to  be  cleansed  and  made  presentable  while  enthu- 
siastic friends  preserve  discretion.  It  is,  of  course,  less  than 
magnanimity;  they  are  not  proposed  to  you  for  your  worship; 
they  are  little  gods,  temporary  as  that  great  wave,  their 
parent  human  mass  of  the  hour.  But  they  have  one  worship- 
ful element  in  them,  which  is,  the  divine  insistancy  upon 
there  being  two  sides  to  a  case — to  every  case.  And  the 
people  so  far  directed  by  them  may  boast  of  healthfulness. 
Let  the  individual  shriek,  the  innocent,  triumphant,  have  in 
honesty  to  admit  the  fact.  One  side  is  vanquished,  according 
to  decree  of  law,  but  the  superior  council  does  not  allow  it 
to  be  extinguished. 

Diana's  battle  was  fought  shadowily  behind  her  for  the 
space  of  a  week  or  so,  with  some  advocates  on  behalf  of  the 
beaten  man;  then  it  became  a  recollection  of  a  beautiful  wom- 
an, possibly  erring,  misvalued  by  a  husband,  who  was  neither 
a  man  of  the  world  nor  a  gracious  yokefellow,  nor  anything  to 
match  her.  She,  however,  once  out  of  the  public  flames,  had 
to  recall  her  scorchings  to  be  gentle  with  herself.  Under  a 
defeat  she  would  have  been  angrily  self -vindicated.  The  vic- 
tory of  the  ashen  laurels  drove  her  mind  inward  to  gird  at 


132  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

the  hateful  yoke,  in  compassion  for  its  pair  of  victims.  Quite 
earnestly  by  such  means,  yet  always  bearing  a  comical  eye  on 
her  subterfuges,  she  escaped  the  extremes  of  personal  blame. 
Those  advocates  of  her  opponent,  in  and  out  of  court,  com- 
pelled her  honest  heart  to  search  within  and  own  to  faults. 
But  were  they  not  natural  faults?  It  was  her  marriage;  it 
was  marriage  in  the  abstract :  her  own  mistake  and  the  A^orld's 
clumsy  machinery  of  civilization:  these  were  the  capital  of- 
fenders: not  the  wife  who  would  laugh  ringingly,  and  would 
have  friends  of  the  other  sex,  and  shot  her  epigrams  at  the 
helpless  despot,  and  was  at  times — yes,  vixenish;  a  nature 
driven  to  it,  but  that  was  the  word.  She  was  too  generous  to 
recount  her  charges  against  the  vanquished.  If  his  wretched 
Jealousy  had  ruined  her,  the  secret  high  tribunal  within  her 
bosom,  which  judged  her  guiltless  for  putting  the  sword  be- 
tween their  marriage  tie  when  they  stood  as  one,  because  a 
quarreling  couple  could  not  in  honor  play  the  embracing,  pro- 
nounced him  just  pardonable.  She  distinguished  that  he  could 
only  suppose,  manlikely,  one  bad  cause  for  the  division. 

To  this  extent  she  used  her  unerring  brains,  more  openly 
than  on  her  night  of  debate  at  The  Crossways.  The  next 
moment  she  was  off  in  vapor,  meditating  grandly  on  her  in- 
dependence of  her  sex  and  the  passions.  Love!  she  did  not 
know  it;  she  was  not  acquainted  with  either  the  criminal  or 
the  domestic  god,  and  persuaded  herself  that  she  never  could 
be.  She  was  a  Diana  of  coldness,  preferring  friendship;  she 
could  be  the  friend  of  men.  There  was  another  who  could 
be  the  friend  of  women.  Her  heart  leapt  to  Eedworth.  Con- 
juring up  his  clear  trusty  face,  at  their  grasp  of  hands  when 
parting,  she  thought  of  her  visions  of  her  future  about  the 
period  of  the  Dublin  ball,  and  acknowledged,  despite  the  er- 
ratic step  to  wedlock,  a  gain  in  having  met  and  proved  so 
true  a  friend.  His  face,  figure,  character,  lightest  look,  light- 
est word,  all  were  loyal  signs  of  a  man  of  honor,  cold  as  she; 
he  was  the  man  to  whom  she  could  have  opened  her  heart  for 
inspection.  Rejoicing  in  her  independence  of  an  emotional 
sex,  the  impulsive  woman  burned  with  a  regret  that  at  their 
parting  she  had  not  broken  down  conventional  barriers  and 
given  her  cheek  to  his  lips  in  the  anti-insular  fashion  with  a 
brotherly  friend.  And  why  not  when  both  were  cold?  Spirit 
to  spirit,  she  did,  delightfully  refreshed  by  her  capacity  to  do 
so  without  a  throb.    He  had  held  her  hand  and  looked  into  her 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  133 

eyes  half  a  minute,  like  a  dear  comrade;  as  little  arousing  her 
instincts  of  defensiveness  as  the  clearing  heavens;  and  sisterly 
love  for  it  was  his  due,  a  sister's  kiss.  He  needed  a  sister,  and 
should  have  one  in  her.  Emma's  recollected  talk  of  "Tom 
Eedworth"  painted  him  from  head  to  foot,  brought  the  living 
man  over  the  waters  to  the  deck  of  the  yacht.  A  stout  cham- 
pion in  the  person  of  Tom  Eedworth  was  left  on  British  land; 
but  for  some  reason  past  analysis,  intermixed,  that  is,  among 
a  swarm  of  sensations,  Diana  named  her  champion  to  herself 
with  the  formal  prefix:  perhaps  because  she  knew  a  man's 
Christian  name  to  be  dangerous  handling.  They  differed  be- 
sides frequently  in  opinion,  when  the  habit  of  thinking  of 
him  as  Mr.  Eedworth  would  be  best.  Women  are  bound  to 
such  small  observances,  and  especially  the  beautiful  of  the 
sisterhood,  whom  the  world  soon  warns  that  they  carry  ex- 
plosives and  must  particularly  guard  against  the  ignition  of 
petty  sparks.  She  was  less  indiscreet  in  her  thoughts  than 
in  her  acts,  as  is  the  way  with  the  reflective  daughter  of  im- 
pulse; though  she  had  fine  mental  distinctions:  what  she  could 
offer  to  do  "spirit  to  spirit,"  for  instance,  held  nothing  to  her 
mind  of  the  intimacy  of  calling  the  gentleman  plain  Tom  in 
mere  contemplation  of  him.  Her  friend  and  champion  was 
a  volunteer,  far  from  a  mercenary,  and  he  deserved  the  re- 
ward, if  she  could  bestow  it  unalarmed.  They  were  to  meet  in 
Egypt.  Meanwhile  England  loomed  the  home  of  hostile 
forces  ready  to  shock,  had  she  been  a  visible  planet,  and  ready 
to  secrete  a  virus  of  her  past  history,  had  she  been  making  new. 
She  was  happily  away,  borne  by  a  whiter  than  swan's  wing 
on  the  sapphire  Mediterranean.  Her  letters  to  Emma  were 
peeps  of  splendor  for  the  invalid;  her  way  of  life  on  board 
the  yacht,  and  sketches  of  her  host  and  hostess  as  lovers  in 
wedlock  on  the  other  side  of  our  perilous  forties;  sketches 
of  the  bays,  the  towns,  the  people — priests,  dames,  cavaliers, 
urchins,  infants,  shifting  groups  of  supple  southerners — 
flashed  across  the  page  like,  a  web  of  silk,  and  were  dashed 
off,  redolent  of  herself,  as  lightly  as  the  silvery  spray  of  the 
blue  waves  she  furrowed;  telling,  without  allusions  to  the  land 
behind  her,  that  she  had  dipped  in  the  wells  of  blissful  obliv- 
ion. Emma  Dunstane,  as  is  usual  with  those  who  receive  ex- 
hilarating correspotidence  from  makeis  of  books,  condemned 
the  authoress  in  comparison,  and  now  first  saw  that  she  had 
the  gift  of  writing.    Only  one  cry:   "Italy,  Eden  of  exiles!'^ 


34'  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 


betrayed  ihe  seeming  of  a  moan.  She  wrote  of  her  poet  and 
others  immediately.  Thither  had  they  fled,  with  adieu  to 
England! 

How  many  have  waved  the  adieu!  And  it  is  England  nour- 
ishing, England  protecting  them,  England  clothing  them  in 
the  honors  they  wear.  Only  the  posturing  lower  natures,  on 
the  level  of  their  buskins,  can  pluck  out  the  pocket-knife  of 
sentimental  spite  to  cut  themselves  loose  from  her  at  heart  in 
earnest.  The  higher,  bleed  as  they  may,  too  pressingly  feel 
their  debt.  Diana  had  the  Celtic  vivid  sense  of  country.  In 
England  she  was  Irish,  by  hereditary  and  by  willful  opposition. 
Abroad,  gazing  along  the  waters,  observing,  comparing,  re- 
flecting— above  all,  reading  of  the  struggles  at  home,  the 
things  done  and  attempted — ^her  soul  of  generosity  made  her, 
though  not  less  Irish,  a  daughter  of  Britain.  It  is  at  a  dis- 
tance that  striving  countries  should  be  seen  if  we  would  have 
them  in  the  pure  idea;  and  this  young  woman  of  fervid  mind, 
a  reader  of  public  speeches  and  speculator  on  the  tides  of  poli- 
tics (desirous,  further,  to  feel  herself  rather  more  in  the  pure 
idea),  began  to  yearn  for  England  long  before  her  term  of  holi- 
day exile  had  ended.  She  had  been  flattered  by  her  friend, 
her  "wedded  martyr  at  the  stake,^^  as  she  named  him,  to  be- 
lieve that  she  could  exercise  a  judgment  in  politics — could 
think,  even  speak  acutely,  on  public  affairs.  The  reports  of 
speeches  delivered  by  the  men  she  knew  or  knew  of  set  her 
thrilling;  and  she  fancied  the  sensibility  to  be  as  independent 
of  her  sympathy  with  the  orators  as  her  political  notions  were 
sovereignly  above  a  sex  devoted  to  trifles,  and  the  feelings  of 
a  woman  who  had  gone  through  fire.  She  fancied  it  confi- 
dently, notwithstanding  a  peculiar  intuition  that  the  plunge 
into  the  nobler  business  of  the  world  would  be  a  haven  of 
safety  for  a  woman  with  blood  and  imagination,  when  writ- 
ing to  Emma:  "Mr.  Eedworth's  great  success  in  Parliament 
is  good  in  itself,  whatever  his  views  of  present  questions;  and 
I  do  not  heed  them  when  I  look  to  what  may  be  done  by  a 
man  of  such  power  in  striking  at  unjust  laws,  which  keep  the 
really  numerically  better-half  of  the  population  in  a  state  of 
slavery.  If  he  had  been  a  lawyer!  It  must  be  a  lawyer's  in- 
itiative— a  lawyer's  bill.  Mr.  Percy  Dacier  also  spoke  well,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  and  his  uncle's  compliment  to  him 
was  merited.  Should  you  meet  him  sound  him.  He  has  read 
for  the  bar,  and  is  younger  than  Mr.  Kedworth.    The  very 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 


€L^' 


young  men  and  the  old  are  our  hope.  The  middle-aged  are 
hard  and  fast  for  existing  facts.  We  pick  our  leaders  on  the 
slopes,  the  incline  and  decline  of  the  mountain — not  on  the 
upper  table-land  midway,  where  all  appears  to  men  so  solid, 
so  tolerably  smooth,  save  for  a  few  excrescences,  roughnesses, 
gradually  to  be  leveled  at  their  leisure;  which  induces  one 
to  protest  that  the  middle-age  of  men  is  their  time  of  delu- 
sion. It  is  no  paradox.  They  may  be  publicly  useful  in  a 
small  way,  I  do  not  deny  it  at  all.  They  must  be  near  the 
gates  of  life — the  opening  or  the  closing — for  their  minds  to 
be  accessible  to  the  urgency  of  the  greater  questions.  Ot 
wise  the  world  presents  itself  to  them  under  too  settled  an  as- 
pect— unless,  of  course,  Yesuvian  Revolution  shakes  the  land. 
And  that  touches  only  their  nerves.  I  dream  of  some  old 
judge!  There  is  one — ^if  having  caught  we  could  keep  him. 
But  I  dread  so  tricksy  a  pilot.  You  have  guessed  him — the 
ancient  Puck!  We  have  laughed  all  day  over  the  paper  telling 
us  of  his  worrying  the  Lords.  Lady  Esquart  congratulates  her 
husband  in  being  out  of  it.  Puck  bien  ride  and  bewigged 
might  perhaps — except  that  at  the  critical  moment  he  would 
be  sure  to  plead  allegiance  to  Oberon.  However,  the  work 
will  be  performed  by  some  one:  I  am  prophetic:  when  maid- 
ens are  grandmothers!  when  your  Tony  is  wearing  a  perpetual 
laugh  in  the  unhusbanded  regions  where  there  is  no  institu- 
tion of  the  wedding-tie." 

For  the  reason  that  she  was  not  to  participate  in  the  re- 
sult of  the  old  judge's  or  young  hero's  happy  championship  of 
the  cause  of  her  sex  she  conceived  her  separateness  high  aloof, 
and  actually  supposed  she  was  a  contemplative,  simply  specu- 
lative political  spirit,  impersonal  albeit  a  woman.  This,  as 
Emma,  smiling  at  the  Imes,  had  not  to  learn,  was  always  her 
secret  pride  of  fancy — the  belief  in  her  possession  of  a  dis- 
engaged intellect. 

The  strange  illusion  so  clearly  exposed  to  her  correspondent 
was  maintained  through  a  series  of  letters  very  slightly  de- 
scriptive, dated  from  the  Piraeus,  the  Bosphorus,  the  coasts 
of  the  Crimea,  all  more  or  less  relating  to  the  latest  news  of 
the  journals  received  on  board  the  yacht,  and  of  English  vis- 
itors fresh  from  the  country  she  now  seemed  fond  of  calling 
"home."  Politics,  and  gentle  allusions  to  the  curious  exhi- 
bition of  "love  in  marriage"  shown  by  her  amiable  host  and 
hostess — "these  dear  Esquarts,  who  are  never  tired  of  one  an- 


7 


136  DM'NA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

other,  but  courtly  courting,  tempting  me  to  think  it  possible 
that  a  fortunate  selection  and  a  mutual  deference  may  sub- 
scribe to  human  happiness" — filled  the  paragraphs.  Reviews 
of  her  first  literary  venture  w^ere  mentioned  once:  "I  was 
well  advised  by  Mr.  Eedworth  in  putting  Antonia  for  author- 
ess. She  is  a  buff  jerkin  to  the  stripes,  and  I  suspect  that  the 
signature  of  D.  A.  W.,  written  in  full,  would  have  cawed  woe- 
fully to  hear  that  her  stjde  is  affected,  her  characters  nulli- 
ties, her  cleverness  forced,  etc.,  etc.  As  it  is,  I  have  much  the 
same  contempt  for  poor  Antonia's  performance.  Cease  pen- 
ning, little  tool!  She  writes,  Vith  some  comprehension  of 
the  passion  of  love.'  I  know  her  to  be  a  stranger  to  the  earl- 
iest cry.  So  you  see,  dear,  that  utter  ignorance  is  the  mother 
of  the  Art.  Dialogues  'occasionally  pointed.'  She  has  a  sister 
who  may  do  better.  But  why  was  I  not  apprenticed  to  a 
serviceable  profession  or  a  trade?  I  perceive  now  that  a 
hanger-on  of  the  market  had  no  right  to  expect  a  happier 
fate  than  mine  has  been." 

On  the  Nile,  in  the  winter  of  the  year,  Diana  met  the  Hon. 
Percy  Dacier.  He  was  introduced  to  her  at  Cairo  by  Eed- 
worth. The  two  gentlemen  had  struck  up  a  House  of  Com- 
mons acquaintanceship,  and,  finding  themselves  bound  for 
the  same  destination,  had  grown  friendly.  Redworth's  arrival 
had  been  pleasantly  expected.  She  remarked  on  Dacier's 
presence  to  Emma,  without  sketch  or  note  of  him  as  other 
than  much  esteemed  by  Lord  and  Lady  Esquart.  These,  with 
Diana,  Eedworth,  Dacier,  the  German  Eastern  traveler 
Schweizerbarth,  and  the  French  Consul  and  Egyptologist  Du- 
riette,  composed  a  voyaging  party  up  the  river,  of  which  ex- 
pedition Eedworth  was  Lady  Dunstane's  chief  writer  of  the 
records.  His  novel  perceptiveness  and  shrewdness  of  touch 
made  them  amusing;  and  his  tenderness  to  the  Beauty's 
coquetry  between  the  two  foreign  rivals  moved  a  deeper  feel- 
ing. The  German  had  a  guitar,  the  Frenchman  a  voice;  Diana 
joined  them  in  harmony.  They  complained  apart  severally  of 
the  accompaniment  and  the  singer.  Our  English  criticized 
them  apart;  and  that  is  at  any  rate  to  occupy  a  post,  though 
it  contributes  nothing  to  entertainment.  At  home  the  Es- 
quarts  had  sung  duets;  Diana  had  assisted  Eedworth's  manly 
chest-notes  at  the  piano.  Each  of  them  declined  to  be  vocal. 
Diana  sang  alone  for  the  credit  of  the  country,  Italian  and 
French  songs,  Irish  also.     She  was  in  her  mood  of  Planxty 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  137 

Kelly  and  Garryowen  all  the  way.  "Madame  est  Irlandaise?" 
Redworth  heard  the  Frenchman  say,  and  he  owned  to  what 
was  implied  in  the  answering  tone  of  the  question.  "We 
should  be  dull  dogs  without  the  Irish  leaven!''  So  Tony  in 
exile  still  managed  to  do  something  for  her  darling  Erin.  The 
solitary  woman  on  her  heights  at  Copsley  raised  an  exclama- 
tion of,  "Oh,  that  those  two  had  been  or  could  be  united!"  She 
was  conscious  of  a  mystic  symbolism  in  the  prayer. 

She  was  not  apprehensive  of  any  ominous  intervention  of 
another.  Writing  from  Venice,  Diana  mentioned  Mr.  Percy 
Dacier  as  being  engaged  to  an  heiress:  "A  Miss  Asper,  niece 
of  a  mighty  shipowner,  Mr.  Quintin  Manx,  Lady  Esquart  tells 
me:  money  fabulous,  and  necessary  to  a  younger  son  devoured 
with  ambition.  The  elder  brother.  Lord  Creedmore,  is  a  com- 
mon Nimrod,  always  absent  in  Hungary,  Eussia,  America, 
hunting  somewhere.  Mr.  Dacier  will  be  in  the  Cabinet  with 
the  next  Ministry."  No  more  of  him.  A  new  work  by  An- 
tonia  was  progressing. 

The  summer  in  South  Tyrol  passed  like  a  royal  procession 
before  young  eyes  for  Diana;  and  at  the  close  of  it,  descend- 
ing the  Stelvio,  idling  through  the  Valtelline,  Como  Lake 
was  reached,  Diana  full  of  her  work,  living  the  double  life  of 
the  author.  At  Bellagio  one  afternoon  Mr.  Percy  Dacier  ap- 
peared. She  remembered  subsequently  a  disappointment  she 
felt  in  not  beholding  Mr.  Redworth  either  with  him  or  dis- 
placing him.  If  engaged  to  a  lady,  he  was  not  an  ardent 
suitor;  nor  was  he  a  pointedly  complimentary  acquaintance. 
His  enthusiasm  was  reserved  for  Italian  scenery.  She  had 
already  formed  a  sort  of  estimate  of  his  character,  as  an  in- 
different observer  may  do,  and  any  woman  previous  to  the 
inflaming  of  her  imagination,  if  that  is  in  store  for  her;  and 
she  now  fell  to  w^ork  resetting  the  puzzle  it  became  as  soon 
as  her  positive  conclusions  had  to  be  shaped  again.  "But 
women  never  can  know  young  men,"  she  wrote  to  Emma,  after 
praising  his  good  repute  as  one  of  the  brotherhood.  "He 
drops  pretty  sentences  now  and  then:  no  compliments;  milky 
nuts.  Of  course  he  has  a  head,  or  he  would  not  be  where  he 
is — and  that  seems  always  to  me  the  most  enviable  place  a 
young  man  can  occupy."  She  observed  in  him  a  singular  con- 
flicting of  a  buoyant  animal  nature  with  a  curb  of  studious- 
ness,  as  if  the  fardels  of  age  were  piling  on  his  shoulders  before 
youth  had  quitted  its  pastures.     His  build  of  limbs  and  his 


^ 


138  DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

features  were  those  of  the  finely-bred  English;  he  had  the 
English  taste  for  sports,  games,  manly  diversions;  and  in  the 
bloom  of  life,  under  thirty,  his  head  was  given  to  bend.  The 
head  bending  on  a  tall  upright  figure,  where  there  was  breadth 
of  chest,  told  of  weights  working.  She  recollected  his  open 
look,  larger  than  inquiring,  at  the  introduction  to  her;  and  it 
recurred  when  she  uttered  anything  specially  taking.  What 
it  meant  was  past  a  guess,  though,  comparing  it  with  the 
frank  directness  of  Eedworth's  eyes,  she  saw  the  difference 
between  a  look  that  accepted  her  and  one  that  dilated  on  two 
opinions. 

Her  thought  of  the  gentleman  was  of  a  brilliant  young 
charioteer  in  the  ruck  of  the  race,  watchful  for  his  chance  to 
push  to  the  front;  and  she  could  have  said  that  a  dubious 
consort  might  spoil  a  promising  career.  It  flattered  her  to 
think  that  she  sometimes  prompted  him,  sometimes  illumined. 
He  repeated  sentences  she  had  spoken.  "I  shall  be  better 
able  to  describe  Mr.  Dacier  when  you  and  I  sit  together,  my 
Emmy,  and  a  stroke  here  and  there  completes  the  painting. 
Set  descriptions  are  good  for  puppets.  Living  men  and  wom- 
en are  too  various  in  the  mixture  fashioning  them — even  the 
'external  presentment' — to  be  livingly  rendered  in  a  formal 
sketch.  I  may  tell  you  his  eyes  are  pale  blue,  his  features 
regular,  his  hair  silky,  brownish,  his  legs  long,  his  head  rather 
stooping  (only  the  head),  his  mouth  commonly  closed;  these 
are  the  facts,  and  you  have  seen  much  the  same  in  a  nursery 
doll.  Such  literary  craft  is  of  the  nursery.  So  with  land- 
scapes. The  art  of  the  pen  (we  write  on  darkness)  is  to  rouse 
the  inward  vision,  instead  of  laboring  with  a  drop-scene  brush, 
as  if  it  were  to  the  eye;  because  our  flying  minds  cannot  con- 
tain a  protracted  description.  That  is  why  the  poets,  who 
spring  imagination  with  a  word  or  a  phrase,  paint  lasting  pic- 
tures. The  Shakespearian,  the  Dantesque,  are  in  a  line,  two 
at  most.  H^  lends  an  attentive  ear  when  I  speak,  agrees  or 
has  a  quaint  pucker  of  the  eyebrows  dissenting  inwardly.  He 
lacks  mental  liveliness — cheerfulness  I  should  say,  and  is 
thankful  to  have  it  imparted.  One  suspects  he  would  be  a  dull 
domestic  companion.  He  has  a  veritable  thirst  for  hopeful 
views  of  the  world,  and  no  spiritual  distillery  of  his  own.  He 
leans  to  depression.  Why!  The  broken  reed  you  call  your 
Tony  carries  a  cargo,  all  of  her  manufacture — she  reeks  of 
secret  stills;   and  here  is  a  young  man — a  sapling  oak — ^in- 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  139 

clined  to  droop.  His  nature  has  an  air  of  imploring  me  que 
je  Varrose!  I  begin  to  perform  Mrs.  Dr.  Pangloss  on  purpose 
to  brighten  him — the  mind,  the  views.  He  is  not  altogether 
deficient  in  conversational  gayety,  and  he  shines  in  exercise. 
But  the  world  is  a  poor  old  ball  bounding  down  a  hill — to  an 
Irish  melody  in  the  evening  generally,  by  request.  So  far 
of  Mr.  Percy  Dacier,  of  whom  I  have  some  hopes — distant, 
perhaps  delusive — that  he  may  be  of  use  to  our  cause.  He  lis- 
tens.   It  is  an  auspicious  commencement." 

Lugano  is  the  Itahan  lake  most  lovingly  encircled  by  moun- 
tain arms,  and  every  height  about  it  may  be  scaled  with  ease. 
The  heights  have  their  nest  of  waters  below  for  a  home 
scene,  the  southern  Swiss  peaks,  with  celestial  Monta  Rosa,  in 
prospect.  It  was  there  that  Diana  reawakened,  after  the 
trance  of  a  deadly  draught,  to  the  glory  of  the  earth  and  her 
share  in  it.  She  wakened  like  the  Princess  of  the  Kiss;  hap- 
pily not  to  kisses;  to  no  sign,  touch,  or  call  that  she  could 
trace  backward.  The  change  befell  her  without  a  warning. 
After  writing  deliberately  to  her  friend  Emma  she  laid  down 
her  pen  and  thought  of  nothing;  and  into  this  dreamfulness  a 
wine  pass<^d,  filling  her  veins,  suffusing  her  mind,  quickening 
her  soul — and  coming  whence?  out  of  air,  out  of  the  yonder 
of  air.  She  could  have  imagined  a  seraphic  presence  in  the 
room,  that  bade  her  arise  and  live;  take  the  cup  of  the  wells 
of  youth  arrested  at  her  lips  by  her  marriage;  quit  her  wintry 
bondage  for  warmth,  light,  space,  the  quick  of  simple  being. 
And  the  strange  pure  ecstasy  was  not  a  transient  electrifica- 
tion; it  came  in  waves  on  a  continuous  tide;  looking  was  liv- 
ing; walking  flying.  She  hardly  knew  that  she  slept.  The 
heights  she  had  seen  rosy  at  eve  were  marked  for  her  ascent 
in  the  dawn.  Sleep  was  one  wink,  and,  fresh  as  the  dewy  field 
and  rock-flowers  on  her  way  upward,  she  sprang  to  more  and 
more  of  Heaven,  insatiable,  happily  chirruping  over  her  pos- 
sessions. The  threading  of  the  town  among  the  dear  common 
people  before  others  were  abroad  was  a  pleasure:  and  pleasant 
her  solitariness  threading  the  gardens  at  the  base  of  the  rock, 
only  she  astir;  and  the  first  rough  steps  of  the  winding  foot- 
path, the  first  closed  buds,  the  sharper  air,  the  uprising  of  the 
mountain  with  her  ascent;  and  pleasant  too  was  her  hunger 
and  the  nibble  at  a  little  loaf  of  bread.  A  linnet  sang  in  her 
breast,  an  eagle  lifted  her  feet.  The  feet  were  verily  winged, 
as  they  are  in  a  season  of  youth,  when  the  blood  leaps  to  light 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

from  the  pressure  of  the  under  forces,  like  a  source  at  the 
well-heads,  and  the  Avhole  creature  blooms,  vital  in  every 
energy  as  a  spirit.  To  be  a  girl  again  was  magical.  She  could 
fancy  her  having  risen  from  the  dead.  And  to  be  a  girl,  with 
a  woman's  broader  vision  and  receptiveness  of  soul,  with 
knowledge  of  evil,  and  winging  to  ethereal  happiness,  this 
was  a  revelation  of  our  human  powers. 

She  attributed  the  change  to  the  influences  of  nature's 
beauty  and  grandeur.  Nor  had  her  woman's  consciousness 
to  play  the  chrysalis  in  any  shy  recesses  of  her  heart;  she 
was  nowhere  veiled  or  torpid;  she  was  illumined,  like  ijie 
Salvatore  she  saw  in  the  evening  beams  and  mounted  in  the 
mornings;  and  she  had  not  a  spot  of  secrecy;  all  her  nature 
flew  and  bloomed;  she  was  bird,  flower,  flowing  river,  a  quiv- 
ering sensibility  unweighted,  unshrouded.  Desires  and  hopes 
would  surely  have  weighted  and  shrouded  her.  She  had 
none,  save  for  the  upper  air,  the  eyes  of  the  mountain. 

Which  was  the  dream — her  past  life  or  this  ethereal  exist- 
ence? But  this  ran  spontaneously,  and  the  other  had  often 
been  stimulated — ^her  vivaciousness  on  the  Nile-boat,  for  a  re- 
cent example.  She  had  not  a  doubt  that  her  past  life  was  the 
dream,  or  deception;  and  for  the  reason  that  now  she  was 
compassionate,  large  of  heart  toward  all  beneath  her.  Let 
them  but  leave  her  free,  they  were  forgiven,  even  to  prayers 
for  their  well-being!  The  plural  number  in  the  case  was  an 
involuntary  multiplying  of  the  single,  coming  of  her  inca- 
pacity during  this  elevation  and  rapture  of  the  senses  to  think 
distinctly  of  that  One  who  had  discolored  her  opening  life. 
Freedom  to  breathe,  gaze,  climb,  grow  with  the  grasses,  fly 
with  the  clouds,  to  muse,  to  sing,  to  be  an  unclaimed  self,  dis- 
persed upon  earth,  air,  sky,  to  find  a  keener  transfigured  self 
in  that  radiation — she  craved  no  more. 

Bear  in  mind  her  beauty,  her  charm  of  tongue,  her  present 
state  of  white  simplicity  in  fervor:  was  there  ever  so  perilous 
a  woman  for  the  most  guarded  and  clearest-eyed  of  young  men 
to  meet  at  early  morn  upon  a  mountain  side? 


DIANA    OP   THE    CROSSWAYS.  141 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

TREATS  OF  A  MIDNIGHT  BELL  AND  OF  A  SCENE  OP 
EARLY   MORNING. 

On  a  round  of  the  mountains  rising  from  Osteno,  south- 
eastward of  Lugano,  the  Esquart  party  rose  from  the  natural 
grotto  and  headed  their  carriages  up  and  down  the  defiles, 
halting  for  a  night  at  Eovio,  a  little  village  below  the  Gener- 
oso,  lively  with  waterfalls  and  watercourses;  and  they  fell  so 
in  love  with  the  place  that,  after  roaming  along  the  flowery 
border-ways  by  moonlight,  they  resolved  to  rest  there  two  or 
three  days,  and  try  some  easy  ascents.  In  the  diurnal  course 
of  nature,  being  pleasantly  tired,  they  had  the  avowed  inten- 
tion of  sleeping  there;  so  they  went  early  to  their  beds,  and 
carelessly  wished  one  another  good-night,  none  of  them  suppos- 
ing slumber  to  be  anywhere  one  of  the  warlike  arts,  a  para- 
doxical thing  you  must  battle  for,  and  can  only  win  at  last 
when  utterly  beaten.  Hard  by  their  inn,  close  enough  for  a 
priestly  homily  to  have  been  audible,  stood  a  church  campan- 
ile, wherein  hung  a  bell,  not  ostensibly  communicating  with 
the  demons  of  the  pit;  in  daylight  rather  a  merry  comrade. 
But  at  night,  when  the  children  of  nerves  lay  stretched,  he 
threw  off  the  mask.  As  soon  as  they  had  fairly  nestled  he 
smote  their  pillows  a  shattering  blow,  loud  for  the  retold  pre- 
luding quarters,  incredibly  clanging  the  number  ten.  Then 
he  waited  for  neighboring  campanili  to  box  the  ears  of  slum- 
ber's votaries  in  turn;  whereupon,  under  pretense  of  excessive 
conscientiousness,  or  else  oblivious  of  his  antecedent  damnable 
misconduct,  or  perhaps  in  actual  league  and  trapdoor  conspir- 
acy with  the  surging  goblin  hosts  beneath  us,  he  resumed  his 
blaring  strokes,  a  sonorous  recapitulation  of  the  number;  all 
the  others  likewise.  It  was  an  alarum  fit  to  warn  of  Attila  or 
Alaric;  and  not  simply  the  maniacal  noise  invaded  the  fruit- 
ful provinces  of  sleep  like  Hun  and  Vandal,  the  irrational  repe- 
tition ploughed  the  minds  of  those  unhappy  somnivolent,  leav- 
ing them  worse  than  sheared  by  barbarians,  disrupt,  as  by 
earthquake,  with  the  unanswerable  question  to  Providence. 
Why!— Why  twice? 


142  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

Designing  slumberers  are  sucli  infants.  When  they  have 
undressed  and  stretched  themselves  fiat  it  seems  that  they 
have  really  gone  back  to  their  mother's  breasts,  and  they  fret 
at  whatsoever  does  not  smack  of  nature  or  custom.  The 
cause  of  a  repetition  so  senseless  in  its  violence,  and  so  unne- 
cessary, set  them  querying  and  kicking  until  the  inevitable 
quarters  recommenced.  Then  arose  an  insurgent  rabble  in 
their  bosoms,  it  might  be  the  loosened  imps  of  darkness,  urg- 
ing them  to  speculate  whether  the  proximate  monster  about 
to  dole  out  eleventh  hour  in  uproar  would  again  forget  himself 
and  repeat  his  dreary  arithmetic  a  second  time;  for  they 
were  unaware  of  his  religious  obligation,  following  the  hour 
of  the  district,  to  inform  them  of  the  tardy  hour  of  Eome. 
They  waited  in  suspense,  curiosity  enabling  them  to  bear  the 
first  crash  callously.  His  performance  was  the  same.  And 
now  they  took  him  for  a  crazy  engine  whose  madness  had  in- 
fected the  whole  neighborhood.  Now  was  the  moment  to  fight 
for  sleep  in  contempt  of  him,  and  they  began  by  simulating 
an  entry  into  the  fortress  they  were  to  defend,  plunging  on 
their  pillows,  battening  down  their  eyelids,  breathing  with  a 
dreadful  regularity.  Alas!  it  came  to  their  knowledge  that 
the  bell  was  in  possession,  and  they  the  besiegers.  Every  res- 
onant quarter  was  anticipated  up  to  the  blow,  without  avert- 
ing its  murderous  abruptness;  and  an  executioner.  Midnight, 
'that  sounded,  in  addition  to  the  reiterated  quarters,  four-and- 
twenty  ringing  hammer-strokes,  with  the  aching  pause  be- 
tween the  twelves,  left  them  the  prey  of  the  legions  of  tor- 
turers which  are  summed,  though  not  described,  in  the  title 
of  a  sleepless  night. 

From  that  period  the  curse  was  milder,  but  the  victims 
raged.  They  swam  on  vasty  deeps,  they  knocked  at  rusty 
gates,  they  shouldered  all  the  weapons  of  black  Insomnia's 
armory  and  became  her  soldiery,  doing  her  will  upon  them- 
selves. Of  her  originally  sprang  the  inspired  teaching  of  the 
doom  of  men  to  excruciation  in  endlessness.  She  is  the  foun- 
tain of  the  infinite  ocean  whereon  the  exceedingly  sensitive 
soul  is  tumbled  everlastingly,  with  the  diversion  of  hot  pin- 
cers to  appease  its  appetite  for  change. 

Dacier  was  never  the  best  of  sleepers.  He  had  taken  to 
exercise  his  brains  prematurely,  not  only  in  learning,  but  also 
in  reflection;  and  a  reflectiveness  that  is  indulged  before  we 
have  a  rigid  mastery  of  the  emotions,  or  have  slain  them,  is 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  143 

apt  to  make  a  young  man  more  than  commonly  a  child  of 
nerves:  nearly  as  much  so  as  the  dissipated,  with  the  differ- 
ence that  they  are  hilarious  while  wasting  their  treasury, 
which  he  is  not;  and  he  may  recover  under  favoring  condi- 
tions, which  is  a  point  of  vantage  denied  to  them.  Physically 
he  had  stout  reserves,  for  he  had  not  disgraced  the  temple. 
His  intemperateness  lay  in  the  craving  to  rise  and  lead;  a 
precocious  ambition.  This  apparently  modest  young  man 
started  with  an  aim — and  if  in  the  distance,  and  with  but  a 
slingstone,  like  the  slender  shepherd  fronting  the  Philistine, 
all  his  energies  were  in  his  aim — at  Government.  He  had 
hung  on  the  fringe  of  an  Administration.  His  party  was  out, 
and  he  hoped  for  higher  station  on  its  return  to  power.  Many 
perplexities  were  therefore  buzzing  about  his  head;  among 
them  at  present  one  sufficiently  magnified  and  voracious  to 
swallow  the  remainder.  He  added  force  to  the  interrogation 
as  to  why  that  bell  should  sound  its  inhuman  strokes  twice, 
by  asking  himself  why  he  was  there  to  hear  it!  A  strange 
suspicion  of  a  bewitchment  might  have  enlightened  him  if  he 
had  been  a  man  accustomed  to  yield  to  the  peculiar  kind  of 
sorcery  issuing  from  the  sex.  He  rather  despised  the  power  of 
women  over  men;  and  nevertheless  he  was  there,  listening 
to  that  bell,  instead  of  having  obeyed  the  call  of  his  family 
duties,  when  the  latter  was  urgent.  He  had  received  letters 
at  Lugano,  summoning  him  home,  before  he  set  forth  on  his 
present  expedition.  The  noisy  alarum  told  him  he  floundered 
in  quags,  like  a  silly  creature  chasing  a  marsh-lamp.  But  was 
it  so?  Was  it  not,  on  the  contrary,  a  serious  pursuit  of  the 
secret  of  a  woman's  character? — Oh,  a  woman  and  her  char- 
acter! Ordinary  women  and  their  characters  might  set  to 
work  to  get  what  relationship  and  likeness  they  could.  They 
had  no  secret  to  allure.  This  one  had;  she  had  the  secret  of 
lake  waters  under  rock,  unfathomable  in  limpidness.  He 
could  not  think  of  her  without  shooting  at  nature,  and  na- 
ture's very  sweetest  and  subtlest,  for  comparisons.  As  to  the 
sex,  his  active  man's  contempt  of  the  petticoated  secret  at- 
tractive to  boys  and  graylings  made  him  believe  that  in  her  he 
hunted  the  mind  and  the  spirit;  perchance  a  double  mind,  a 
twilighted  spirit;  but  not  a  mere  woman.  She  bore  no  re- 
semblance to  the  bundle  of  women.  Well,  she  was  worth 
studying;  she  had  ideas  and  could  give  ear  to  ideas.  Further- 
more, a  couple  of  the  members  of  his  family  inclined  to  do  her 


144  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

injustice.  At  least  they  judged  her  harshly,  owing,  he  thought, 
to  an  inveterate  opinion  they  held  regarding  Lord  Dannis- 
burgh's  obliquity  in  relation  to  women.  He  shared  it,  and  did 
not  concur  in  their  verdict  upon  the  women  implicated.  That 
is  to  say,  knowing  something  of  her  now,  he  could  see  the 
possibility  of  her  innocence  in  the  special  charm  that  her  mere 
sparkle  of  features  and  speech,  and  her  freshness,  would  have 
for  a  man  like  his  uncle.  The  possibility  pleaded  strongly  on 
her  behalf,  while  the  darker  possibility,  weighted  by  his 
uncle's  reputation,  plucked  at  him  from  below. 
•  She  was  delightful  to  hear,  delightful  to  see;  and  her 
friends  loved  her  and  had  faith  in  her.  So  clever  a  woman 
might  be  too  clever  for  her  friends!     .... 

The  circle  he  moved  in  hummed  of  women,  prompting 
novices,  as  well  as  veterans,  to  suspect  that  the  multitude  of 
them,  and  notably  the  fairest,  yet  more  the  cleverest,  con- 
cealed the  serpent  somewhere. 

She  certainly  had  not  directed  any  of  her  arts  upon  him. 
Besides,  he  was  half  engaged.  And  that  was  a  burning  per- 
plexity; not  because  of  abstract  scruples  touching  the  neces- 
sity for  love  in  marriage.  The  young  lady,  great  heiress  though 
she  was,  and  willing,  as  she  allowed  him  to  assume, — grace- 
ful, too,  reputed  a  beauty, — struck  him  cold.  He  fancied  her 
transparent,  only  arctic.  Her  transparency  displayed  to  him 
all  the  common  virtues,  and  a  serene  possession  of  the  ines- 
timable and  eminent  one  outweighing  all;  but  charm,  wit, 
ardor,  intercommunicative  quickness,  and  kindling  beauty, 
airy  grace,  were  qualities  that  a  man,  it  seemed,  had  to  look 
for  in  women  spotted  by  a  doubt  of  their  having  the  chief 
and  priceless. 

However,  he  was  not  absolutely  plighted.  Nor  did  it  mat- 
ter to  him  whether  this  or  that  woman  concealed  the  tail  of 
the  serpent  and  trail,  excepting  the  singular  interest  this  wom- 
an managed  to  excite,  and  so  deeply  as  set  him  wondering 
how  that  Resurrection  Bell  might  be  affecting  her  ability  to 
sleep.  Was  she  sleeping  or  waking?  His  nervous  imagina- 
tion was  a  torch  that  alternately  lighted  her  lying  asleep  with 
the  innocent,  like  a  babe,  and  tossing  beneath  the  overflow  of 
her  dark  hair,  hounded  by  haggard  memories.  She  fluttered 
before  him  in  either  aspect;  and  another  perplexity  now  was 
to  distinguish  within  himself  which  was  the  aspect  he  pre- 
ferred.    Great  nature  broucrht  him  thus  to  drink  of  her 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  145 

beauty,  under  the  delusion  that  the  act  was  a  speculation  on 
her  character. 

The  Bell,  with  its  clash,  throb,  and  long  swoon  of  sound, 
reminded  him  of  her  name:  Diana!  An  attribute?  or  a  de- 
rision? 

It  really  mattered  nothing  to  him,  save  for  her  being  ma- 
ligned; and,  if  most  unfairly,  then  that  face  of  the  varying 
expressions,  and  the  rich  voice,  and  remembered  gentle  and 
taking  words  coming  from  her,  appealed  to  him  with  a  sup- 
plicating vividness  that  pricked  his  heart  to  leap. 

He  was  dozing  when  the  Bell  burst  through  the  thin  di- 
vision between  slumber  and  wakefulness,  recounting  what 
seemed  innumerable  peals,  hard  on  his  cranium.  Gray  daj^- 
light  blanched  the  window  and  the  bed;  his  watch  said  five  of 
the  morning.  He  thought  of  the  pleasure  of  a  bath  beneath 
some  dashing  spray-showers,  and  jumped  up  to  dress,  feeling 
a  queer  sensation  of  skin  in  his  clothes,  the  sign  of  a  feverish 
night;  and  j^awning  he  went  into  the  air.  Leftward  the 
narrow  village-street  led  to  the  footway  along  which  he  could 
make  for  the  mountain-wall.  He  cast  one  look  at  the  head  of 
the  campanile,  silly  as  an  owlish  roysterer's  glazed  stare  at 
the  young  Aurora,  and  hurried  his  feet  to  check  the  yawns 
coming  alarmingly  fast,  in  the  place  of  ideas. 

His  elevation  above  the  valley  was  about  the  kneecap  of 
the  Generoso.  Waters  of  past  rain-clouds  poured  down  the 
mountain-sides  like  veins  of  metal,  here  and  there  flinging  off 
a  shower  on  the  busy  descent;  only  dubiously  animate  in  the 
lacklustre  of  the  huge  bulk  piled  against  a  yellow  east  that 
wafted  fleets  of  pinky  cloudlets  overhead.  He  mounted  his 
path  to  a  level  with  inviting  grass-mounds  where  water  cir- 
cled, running  from  scoops  and  cups  to  curves  and  brook- 
streams,  and  in  his  fancy  calling  to  him  to  hear  them.  To  dip 
in  them  was  his  desire.  To  roll  and  shiver  braced  by  the  icy 
flow  was  the  spell  to  break  that  baleful  incantation  of  the  in- 
tolerable night;  so  he  struck  across  a  ridge  of  boulders,  wreck 
of  a  landslip  from  the  height  he  had  hugged,  to  the  open  space 
of  shadowed  undulations,  and  soon  had  his  feet  on  turf. 
Heights  to  right  and  to  left,  and  between  them,  aloft,  a  sky 
the  rosy  wheelcourse  of  the  chariot  of  mom,  and  below, 
among  the  knolls,  choice  of  sheltered  nooks  where  waters 
whispered  of  secrecy  to  satisfy  Diana  herself.  They  have  that 
whisper  and  waving  of  secrecy  in  secret  scenery;  they  beckon 

10 


146  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

to  the  bath;  and  they  conjure  classic  visions  of  the  pudency 
of  the  goddess  irate  or  unsighted.  The  semi-mythological 
state  of  mind,  built  of  old  images  and  favoring  haunts,  was 
known  to  Dacier.  The  name  of  Diana,  playing  vaguely  on  his 
consciousness,  helped  to  it.  He  had  no  definite  thought  of 
the  mortal  woman  when  the  highest  grass-roll  near  the  rock 
gave  him  view  of  a  bowered  source  and  of  a  pool  under  a  chain 
of  cascades,  bounded  by  polished  shelves  and  slabs.  The 
very  spot  for  him,  he  decided  at  the  first  peep;  and  at  the  sec- 
ond, with  fingers  instinctively  loosening  his  waistcoat-but- 
tons for  a  commencement,  he  shouldered  round  and  strolled 
away,  though  not  at  a  rapid  pace,  nor  far  before  he  halted. 

That  it  could  be  no  other  than  she,  the  figure  he  had  seen 
standing  beside  the  pool,  he  was  sure.  AYhy  had  he  turned? 
Thoughts  thick  and  swift  as  a  blush  in  the  cheeks  of  seventeen 
overcame  him;  and  queen  of  all,  the  thought  bringing  the 
picture  of  this  mountain  solitude  to  vindicate  a  woman  shame- 
fully assailed.  She  who  found  her  pleasure  in  these  haunts 
of  nymph  and  goddess,  as  the  fresh  cold  bosom  of  nature,  must 
be  clear  as  day.  She  trusted  herself  to  the  loneliness  here, 
and  to  the  honor  of  men,  from  a  like  irreflective  sincereness. 
She  was  unable  to  imagine  danger  where  her  own  impelling 
thirst  was  pure 

The  thoughts,  it  will  be  discerned,  were  but  flashes  of  a 
momentary  vivid  sensibility.  Where  a  woman's  charm  has 
won  half  the  battle,  her  character  is  an  advancing  standard, 
and  sings  victory,  let  her  do  no  more  than  take  a  quiet  morn- 
ing walk  before  breakfast. 

But  why  had  he  turned  his  back  on  her?  There  was  noth- 
ing in  his  presence  to  alarm,  nothing  in  her  appearance  to  for- 
bid. The  motive  and  the  movement  were  equally  quaint;  in- 
comprehensible to  him;  for,  after  putting  himself  out  of 
sight,  he  understood  the  absurdity  of  the  supposition  that  she 
would  seek  the  secluded  sylvan  bath  for  the  same  purpose  as 
he.  Yet  now  he  was  debarred  from  going  to  meet  her.  She 
might  have  an  impulse  to  bathe  her  feet.  Her  name  was 
Diana 

Yes,  and  a  married  woman;  and  a  proclaimed  one!  And 
notwithstanding  those  brassy  facts  he  was  ready  to  side  with 
the  evidence  declaring  her  free  from  stain;  and  further,  to 
swear  that  her  blood  was  Diana's! 

Nor  had  Dacier  ever  been    particularly    poetical    about 


DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  147 

women.  The  present  Diana  had  awakened  his  curiosity,  had 
stirred  his  interest  in  her,  pricked  his  admiration,  but  gradu- 
ally, until  a  sleepless  night  with  its  flock  of  raven-fancies 
imder  that  dominant  Bell,  ended  by  coloring  her,  the  moment 
she  stood  in  his  eyes,  as  freshly  as  the  morning  heavens.  We 
are  much  influenced  in  youth  by  sleepless  nights;  they  dis- 
arm, they  predispose  us  to  submit  to  soft  occasion;  and  in  our 
youth  occasion  is  always  coming. 

He  heard  her  voice.  She  had  risen  up  the  grass-mound, 
and  he  hung  brooding  half-way  down.  She  was  dressed  in 
some  texture  of  the  hue  of  lavender.  A  violet  scarf  loosely 
knotted  ovei"  the  bosom  opened  on  her  throat.  The  loop  of 
her  black  hair  curved  under  a  hat  of  gray  beaver.  Memor- 
ably radiant  was  her  face. 

They  met,  exchanged  greetings,  praised  the  beauty  of  the 
morning,  and  struck  together  on  the  Bell.  She  laughed:  "I 
heard  it  at  ten;  I  slept  till  four.  I  never  wake  later.  I  was 
out  in  the  air  by  half -past.     Were  you  disturbed?'^ 

He  alluded  to  his  troubles  with  the  Bell. 

"It  sounded  like  a  felon's  heart  in  skeleton  ribs,"  he  said. 

"Or  a  proser's  tongue  in  a  hollow  skull,"  said  she. 

He  bowed  to  her  conversible  readiness,  and  at  once  fell  into 
the  background,  as  he  did  only  with  her,  to  perform  accordant 
bass  in  their  dialogue;  for  when  a  woman  lightly  caps  our 
strained  remarks  we  gallantly  surrender  the  leadership,  lest 
she  should  too  cuttingly  assert  her  claim. 

Some  sweet  wild  cyclamen  flowers  were  at  her  breast.  She 
held  in  her  left  hand  a  bunch  of  buds  and  blown  cups  of  the 
pale  purple  meadow-crocus.  He  admired  them.  She  told 
him  to  look  round.  He  confessed  to  not  having  noticed  them 
in  the  grass;  what  was  the  name?  Colchicum,  in  botany,  she 
said. 

"These  are  plucked  to  be  sent  to  a  friend;  otherwise  I'm 
reluctant  to  take  the  life  of  flowers  for  a  whim.  Wild  flowers, 
I  mean.  I  am  not  sentimental  about  garden  flowers;  they  are 
cultivated  for  decoration,  grown  for  clipping." 

"I  suppose  they  don't  carry  the  same  signification,"  said 
Dacier,  in  the  tone  of  a  pupil  to  such  themes. 

"They  carry  no  feeling,"  said  she.  "And  that  is  my  ex- 
cuse for  plucking  these,  where  they  seem  to  spring  like  our 
town-dream  of  happiness.  I  believe  they  are  sensible  of  it, 
too;  but  these  must  do  service  to  my  invalid  friend,  who  can- 


148}  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 


not  travel.  Are  you  ever  as  much  interested  in  the  woes  of 
great  ladies  as  of  country  damsels?  I  am  not — not  unless 
they  have  natural  distinction.  You  have  met  Lady 
Dunstane?'' 

The  question  sounded  artless.  Dacier  answered  that  he 
thought  he  had  seen  her  somewhere  once,  and  Diana  shut  her 
lips  on  a  rising  under-smile. 

"She  is  the  coeur  d'or  of  our  time;  the  one  soul  I  would 
sacrifice  these  flowers  to." 

"A  bit  of  a  blue-stocking,  I  think  I  have  heard  said." 

"She  might  have  been  admitted  to  the  Hotel  Eambouillet, 
without  being  anything  of  a  Precieuse.  She  is  the  woman 
of  the  largest  heart  now  beating." 

"Mr.  Eedworth  talked  of  her." 

^^As  she  deserved,  I  am  sure." 

"Very  warmly." 

"He  would!" 

"He  told  me  you  were  the  Damon  and  Pythias  of  women." 

"Her  one  fault  is  an  extreme  humility  that  makes  her 
always  play  second  to  me;  and,  as  I  am  apt  to  gabble,  I  take 
the  lead;  and  I  am  froth  in  comparison.  I  can  reverence  my 
superiors  even  when  tried  by  intimacy  with  them.  She  is  the 
next  heavenly  thing  to  Heaven  that  I  know.  Court  her,  if 
ever  you  come  across  her.  Or  have  you  a  man's  horror  of 
women  with  brains?" 

"Am  I  expressing  it?"  said  he. 

"Do  not  breathe  London  or  Paris  here  on  me."  She 
fanned  the  crocuses  under  her  chin.  "The  early  morning 
always  has  this — I  wish  I  had  a  word! — touch  .  .  .  whis- 
per .  .  .  gleam  .  .  .  beat  of  wings — ^I  envy  poets 
now  more  than  ever! — of  Eden,  I  was  going  to  say.  Prose 
can  paint  evening  and  moonlight,  but  poets  are  needed  to  sing 
the  dawn.  That  is  because  prose  is  equal  to  melancholy  stuff. 
Gladness  requires  the  finer  language.  Otherwise  we  have  it 
coarse — anything  but  a  reproduction.  You  politicians  de- 
spise the  little  distinctions  ^'twixt  tweedledum  and  tweedle- 
dee,'  I  fancy." 

Of  the  poetic  sort,  Dacier's  uncle  certainly  did.    For  him- 
self he  confessed  to  not  having  thought  much  on  them. 
!      "But  how  divine  is  utterance!"  she  said.    "As  we  to  the 
1  brutes,  poets  are  to  us." 
I     He  listened  somewhat  with  the  head  of  the  hanged.    A 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  149 

beautiful  woman  choosing  to  rhapsodize  has  her  way,  and  is 
not  subjected  to  the  critical  commentary  within  us.  He  won- 
dered whether  she  had  discoursed  in  such  a  fashion  to  his 
uncle. 

"I  can  read  good  poetry/'  said  he. 

"If  you  would  have  this  valley — or  mountain-cleft,  one 
should  call  it — described,  only  verse  could  do  it  for  you,'' 
Diana  pursued,  and  stopped,  glanced  at  his  face  and  smiled. 
She  had  spied  the  end  of  a  towel  peeping  out  of  one  of  his 
pockets.  "You  came  out  for  a  bath!  Go  back,  by  all  means, 
and  mount  that  rise  of  grass  where  you  first  saw  me;  and  down 
on  the  other  side,  a  little  to  the  right,  you  will  find  the  very 
place  for  a  bath,  at  a  comer  of  the  rock — a  natural  fountain; 
a  bubbling  pool  in  a  ring  of  brushwood,  with  falling  water, 
so  tempting  that  I  could  have  pardoned  a  push;  about  five 
feet  deep.     Lose  no  time." 

He  begged  to  assure  her  that  he  would  rather  stroll  with 
her;  it  had  been  only  a  notion  of  bathing  by  chance  when  he 
pocketed  the  towel. 

"Dear  me,"  she  cried,  "if  I  had  been  a  man  I  should  have 
scurried  off  at  a  signal  of  release,  quick  as  a  hare  I  once  woke 
up  in  a  field  with  my  foot  on  its  back." 

Dacier's  eyebrows  knotted  a  trifle  over  her  eagerness  to 
dismiss  him;  he  was  not  used  to  it,  but  rather  to  be  courted 
by  women,  and  to  condescend. 

"I  shall  not  long,  I'm  afraid,  have  the  pleasure  of  walking 
beside  you  and  hearing  you.  I  had  letters  at  Lugano.  My 
uncle  is  unwell,  I  hear." 

"Lord  Dannisburgh?" 

The  name  sprang  from  her  lips  unhesitatingly. 

His  nodded  affirmative  altered  her  face  and  her  voice. 

"It  is  not  a  grave  illness?" 

"They  rather  fear  it." 

"You  had  the  news  at  Lugano?" 

He  answered  the  implied  reproach:  "I  can  be  of  no 
service." 

"But  surely!" 

"It's  even  doubtful  that  he  would  be  bothered  to  receive 
me.    We  hold  no  views  in  common — excepting  one." 

"Could  I?"  she  exclaimed.  "0  that  I  might!  If  he  is 
really  ill!    But  if  it  is  actually  serious  he  would  perhaps  have 


150  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

a  wish  ...  I  can  nurse.  I  know  I  have  the  power  to 
cheer  him.    You  ought  indeed  to  be  in  England." 

Dacier  said  he  had  thought  it  better  to  wait  for  later  re- 
ports. "I  shall  drive  to  Lugano  this  afternoon,  and  act  on  the 
information  I  get  there.     Probably  it  ends  my  holiday." 

"Will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  write  me  word? — and  espe- 
cially tell  me  if  you  think  he  would  like  to  have  me  near  him/' 
said  Diana.  "And  let  him  know  that,  if  he  wants  nursing  or 
cheerful  companionship,  I  am  at  any  moment  ready  to  come." 

The  flattery  of  a  beautiful  young  woman  to  wait  on  him 
would  be  very  agreeable  to  Lord  Dannisburgh,  Dacier  con- 
ceived. Her  offer  to  go  was  possibly  purely  charitable.  But 
the  prudence  of  her  occupation  of  the  post  obscured  what- 
ever appeared  admirable  in  her  devotedness.  Her  choice  of  a 
man  like  Lord  Dannisburgh  for  a  friend  to  whom  she  could 
sacrifice  her  good  name  less  falteringly  than  she  gathered 
those  field-flowers  was  inexplicable;  and  she  herself  a  darker 
riddle  at  each  step  of  his  reading. 

He  promised  curtly  to  write.  "I  will  do  my  best  to  hit  a  fly- 
ing address." 

"Your  club  enables  me  to  hit  a  permanent  one  that  will 
establish  the  communication,"  said  Diana.  "We  shall  not 
sleep  another  night  at  Eovio.  Lady  Esquart  is  the  lightest 
of  sleepers,  and,  if  you  had  a  restless  time,  she  and  her  hus- 
band must  have  been  in  purgatory.  Besides,  permit  me  to 
say,  you  should  be  with  your  party.  The  times  are  troublous 
— ^not  for  holidays!  Your  holiday  has  had  a  haunted  look, 
creditably  to  your  conscience  as  a  politician.  These  Corn 
Law  agitations!" 

"Ah,  but  no  politics  here!"  said  Dacier. 

"Politics  everywhere!  In  the  Courts  of  Faery!  They  are 
not  discord  to  me." 

"But  not  the  last  day — the  last  hour!"  he  pleaded. 

"Well!  Only  do  not  forget  your  assurance  to  me  that  you 
would  give  some  thoughts  to  Ireland — and  the  cause  of 
women.     Has  it  slipped  from  your  memory?" 

"If  I  see  the  chance  of  serving  you,  you  may  trust  to  me." 

She  sent  up  an  interjection  on  the  misfortune  of  her  not 
having  been  born  a  man. 

It  was  to  him  the  one  smart  of  sourness  in  her  charm  as  a 
woman. 

Among  the  boulder-stones  of  the  ascent  to  the  path  he 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  151 

ventured  to  propose  a  little  masculine  assistance  in  a  hand 
stretched  mutely.  Although  there  was  no  great  need  for 
help  her  natural  kindliness  checked  the  inclination  to  refuse 
it.  When  their  hands  disjoined  she  found  herself  reddening. 
She  cast  it  on  the  exertion.  Her  heart  was  throbbing.  It 
might  be  the  exertion  likewise. 

He  walked  and  talked  much  more  airily  along  the  descend- 
ing pathway,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  become  more  intimately 
acquainted  with  her 

She  listened,  trying  to  think  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
might  be  taught  to  serve  that  cause  she  had  at  heart;  and 
the  color  deepened  on  her  cheeks  till  it  set  fire  to  her  under- 
lying consciousness;  blood  to  spirit.  A  tremor  of  alarm  ran 
through  her. 

His  request  for  one  of  the  crocuses  to  keep  as  a  souvenir  of 
the  morning  was  refused.  "They  are  sacred;  they  were  all 
devoted  to  my  iriend  when  I  plucked  them." 

He  pointed  to  a  half-open  one,  with  the  petals  in  dispart- 
ing pointing  to  junction,  and  compared  it  to  the  famous  tip- 
toe ballet-posture,  arms  above  head  and  fingers  like  swallows 
meeting  in  air,  of  an  operatic  danseuse  of  the  time. 

"I  do  not  see  it,  because  I  will  not  see  it,"  she  said,  and 
she  found  a  personal  cooling  and  consolement  in  the  phrase. 
We  have  this  power  of  resisting  invasion  of  the  poetic  by 
the  commonplace,  the  spirit  by  the  blood,  if  we  please,  though 
you  men  may  not  think  that  we  have!  Her  alarmed  sensi- 
bilities bristled  and  made  head  against  him  as  an  enemy. 
She  fancied  (for  the  aforesaid  reason,  because  she  chose) 
that  it  was  on  account  of  the  offense  to  her  shy  morning 
pleasure  by  his  Londonizing.  At  any  other  moment  her 
natural  liveliness  and  trained  social  ease  would  have  taken 
any  remark  on  the  eddies  of  the  tide  of  converse;  and  so  she 
told  herself,  and  did  not  the  less  feel  wounded,  adverse, 
armed.  He  seemed  somehow  to  have  dealt  a  mortal  blow  to 
the  happy  girl  she  had  become  again.  The  woman  she  was 
protested  on  behalf  of  the  girl,  while  the  girl  in  her  heart 
bent  lowered  sad  eyelids  to  the  woman;  and  which  of  them 
was  wiser  of  the  truth  she  could  not  have  said,  for  she  was 
honestly  not  aware  of  the  truth,  but  she  knew  she  was  divided 
in  halves,  with  one  half  pitying  the  other,  one  rebuking;  and 
all  because  of  the  incongruous  comparison  of  a  wildflower  to 


152  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

an  opera-dancer!  Absurd  indeed!  We  human  creatures  are 
the  silliest  on  earth,  most  certainly. 

Dacier  had  observed  the  blush,  and  the  check  to  her  flow- 
ing tongue  did  not  escape  him  as  they  walked  back  to  the 
inn  down  the  narrow  street  of  black  rooms,  where  the  women 
gossiped  at  the  fountain  and  the  cobbler  threaded  on  his 
doorstep.  His  novel  excitement  supplied  the  deficiency, 
sweeping  him  past  minor  reflections.  He  was,  however,  sur- 
prised to  hear  her  tell  Lady  Esquart,  as  soon  as  they  were 
together  at  the  breakfast  table,  that  he  had  the  intention 
of  starting  for  England;  and  further  surprised,  and  slightly 
stung  too,  when  on  the  poor  lady's  moaning  over  her  recollec- 
tion of  the  midnight  Bell,  and  vowing  she  could  not  attempt 
to  sleep  another  night  in  the  place,  Diana  declared  her  re- 
solve to  stay  there  one  day  longer  with  her  maid,  and  explore 
the  neighborhood  for  the  wild-flowers  in  which  it  abounded. 
Lord  and  Lady  Esquart  agreed  to  anything  agreeable  to  her, 
after  excusing  themselves  for  the  necessitated  flight,  piteously 
relating  the  story  of  their  sufferings.  My  lord  could  have 
slept,  but  he  had  remained  awake  to  comfort  my  lady. 

"True  knightliness!"  Diana  said  in  praise  of  these  long- 
married  lovers;  and  she  asked  them  what  they  had  talked  of 
during  the  night. 

"You,  my  dear,  partly,"  said  Lady  Esquart. 

"For  an  opiate?" 

"An  invocation  9f  the  morning,"  said  Dacier. 

Lady  Esquart  looked  at  Diana  and  at  him.  She  thought 
it  was  well  that  her  fair  friend  should  stay.  It  was  then  set- 
tled for  Diana  to  rejoin  them  the  next  evening  at  Lugano, 
thence  to  proceed  to  Luino  on  the  Maggiore. 

"I  fear  it  is  good-bye  for  me,"  Dacier  said  to  her,  as  he  was 
about  to  step  into  the  carriage  with  the  Esquarts. 

"If  you  have  not  better  news  of  your  uncle,  it  must  be," 
she  replied,  and  gave  him  her  hand  promptly  and  formally, 
hardly  diverting  her  eyes  from  Lady  Esquart  to  grace  the 
temporary  gift  with  a  look.  The  last  of  her  he  saw  was  a 
waving  of  her  arm  and  a  finger  pointing  triumphantly  at 
the  Bell  in  the  tower.  It  said,  to  an  understanding  unprac- 
ticed  in  the  feminine  mysteries,  "I  can  sleep  through  any- 
thing." What  that  revealed  of  her  state  of  conscience  and 
her  nature,  his  efforts  to  preserve  the  lovely  optical  figure 
blocked  his  guessing.     He  was  with  her  friends,  who  liked 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  153 

her  the  more  they  knew  her,  and  he  was  compelled  to  lean 
to  their  view  of  the  perplexing  woman. 

*^She  is  a  riddle  to  the  world,"  Lady  Esquart  said,  "but  I 
know  that  she  is  good.  It  is  the  best  of  signs  when  women 
take  to  her  and  are  proud  to  be  her  friend." 

My  lord  echoed  his  wife.  She  talked  in  this  homely  man- 
ner to  stop  any  notion  of  philandering  that  the  young  gen- 
tleman might  be  disposed  to  entertain  in  regard  to  a  lady 
so  attractive  to  the  pursuit  as  Diana's  beauty  and  delicate 
situation  might  make  her  seem. 

"She  is  an  exceedingly  clever  person,  and  handsomer  than 
report,  which  is  uncommon,"  said  Dacier,  becoming  voluble 
on  town-topics,  Miss  Asper  incidentally  among  them.  He 
denied  Lady  Esquart's  charge  of  an  engagement;  the  matter 
hung. 

His  letters  at  Lugano  summoned  him  to  England  in- 
stantly. 

"I  have  taken  leave  of  Mrs.  Warwick,  but  tell  her  I  re- 
gret, et  cetera,"  he  said;  "and,  by  the  way,  as  my  uncle's 
illness  appears  to  be  serious,  the  longer  she  is  absent  the  bet- 
ter, perhaps." 

"It  would  never  do,"  said  Lady  Esquart,  understanding 
his  drift  immediately.  "We  winter  in  Rome.  She  will  not 
abandon  us — I  have  her  word  for  it.  Next  Easter  we  are  in 
Paris;  and  so  home,  I  suppose.  There  will  be  no  hurry  be- 
fore we  are  due  at  Cowes.  We  seem  to  have  become  con- 
firmed wanderers;  for  two  of  us  at  least  it  is  likely  to  be  our 
last  great  tour." 

Dacier  informed  her  that  he  had  pledged  his  word  to  write 
to  Mrs.  Warwick  of  his  uncle's  condition,  and  the  several  ap- 
pointed halting-places  of  the  Esquarts  between  the  lakes  and 
Florence  were  named  to  him.  Thus  all  things  were  openly 
treated;  all  had  an  air  of  being  on  the  surface;  the  communi- 
cations passing  between  Mrs.  Warwick  and  the  Hon.  Percy 
Dacier  might  have  been  perused  by  all  the  world.  None  but 
that  portion  of  it,  sage  in  suspiciousness,  which  objects  to  such 
communications  under  any  circumstances,  could  have  detected 
in  their  correspondence  a  spark  of  coming  fire  or  that  there 
was  common  warmth.  She  did  not  feel  it,  nor  did  he.  The 
position  of  the  two  interdicted  it  to  a  couple  honor- 
ably sensible  of  social  decencies;  and  who  were,  be  it  added, 
kept  apart.     The  blood  is  the  treacherous  element  in  the 


154  DIANA    OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

story  of  the  nobly  civilized,  of  which  secret  Diana,  a  wife  and 
no  wife,  a  prisoner  in  liberty,  a  blooming  woman  imagining 
herself  restored  to  transcendent  maiden  ecstasies — the  highest 
youthful  poetic — had  received  some  faint  intimation  when 
the  blush  flamed  suddenly  in  her  cheeks  and  her  heart  knelled 
like  the  towers  of  a  city  given  over  to  the  devourer.  She  had 
no  wish  to  meet  him  again.  Without  telling  herself  why, 
she  would  have  shunned  the  meeting.  Disturbers  that 
thwarted  her  simple  happiness  in  sublime  scenery  were  best 
avoided.  She  thought  so  the  more  for  a  fitful  blur  to  the 
simplicity  of  her  sensations,  and  a  task  she  sometimes  had  in 
restoring  and  toning  them,  after  that  sweet  morning  time  in 
Eovio. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
"THE  PRINCESS  EGERIA." 

London,  say  what  we  will  of  it,  is  after  all  the  head  of 
the  British  giant,  and,  if  not  the  liveliest  in  bubbles,  it  is 
past  competition  the  largest  broth-pot  of  brains  anywhere 
simmering  on  the  hob;  over  the  steadiest  of  furnaces  too. 
And  the  oceans  and  the  continents,  as  you  know,  are  per- 
petual and  copious  contributors,  either  to  the  heating  appa- 
ratus or  to  the  contents  of  the  pot.  Let  grander  similes  be 
sought.  This  one  fits  for  the  smoky  receptacle  cherishing 
millions,  magnetic  to  tens  of  millions  more,  with  its  caked 
outside  of  grime,  and  the  inward  substance  incessantly  kick- 
ing the  lid,  prankish,  but  never  casting  it  off.  A  good  stew, 
you  perceive;  not  a  parlous  boiling.  Weak  as  we  may  be 
in  our  domestic  cookery,  our  political  has  been  sagaciously 
adjusted  as  yet  to  catch  the  ardors  of  the  furnace  without 
being  subject  to  their  volcanic  activities. 

That  the  social  is  also  somewhat  at  fault  we  have  proof  in 
occasional  outcries  over  the  absence  of  these  or  those  par- 
ticular persons  famous  for  inspiriting.  It  sticks  and  clogs. 
The  improvising  songster  is  missed,  the  convivial  essayist, 
the  humorous  Dean,  the  traveled  cynic,  and  he,  the  one  of 
his  day,  the  iridescent  Irishman,  whose  remembered  repartees 
are  a  feast,  sharp  and  ringing,  at  divers  tables  descending 
from  the  upper  to  the  fat  citizen's,  where,  instead  of  coming 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  155 

in  the  sequence  of  talk,  they  are  exposed  by  blasting,  like 
fossil  teeth  of  old  deluge  sharks  in  monotonous  walls  of  our 
chalk  quarries.  Nor  are  these  the  less  welcome  for  the  vio- 
lence of  their  introduction  among  a  people  glad  to  be  set 
burning  rather  briskly  awhile  by  the  most  unexpected  of 
digs  in  the  ribs.  Dan  Merion,  to  give  an  example.  That 
was  Dan  Merion's  joke  with  the  watchman;  and  he  said  that 
other  thing  to  the  Marquis  of  Kingsbury,  when  the  latter 
asked  him  if  he  had  ever  won  a  donkey-race.  And  old  Dan 
is  dead,  and  we  are  the  duller  for  it!  which  leads  to  the 
question:  Is  genius  hereditary?  And  the  affirmative  and 
negative  are  respectively  maintained,  rather  against  the  Yes 
in  the  dispute,  until  a  member  of  the  audience  speaks  of  Dan 
Merion's  having  left  a  daughter  reputed  for  a  sparkling  wit 
not  much  below  the  level  of  his  own.  Why,  are  you  unaware 
that  the  Mrs.  Warwick  of  that  scandal  case  of  Warwick 
versus  Dannisburgh  was  old  Dan  Merion's  girl  and  his  only 
child?  It  is  true;  for  a  friend  had  it  from  a  man  who  had 
it  straight  from  Mr.  Braddock,  of  the  firm  of  Braddock, 
Thorp,  and  Simnel,  her  solicitors  in  the  action,  who  told  him 
he  could  sit  listening  to  her  for  hours,  and  that  she  was  as 
innocent  as  day;  a  wonderful  combination  of  a  good  woman 
and  a  clever  woman,  and  a  real  beauty.  Only  her  misfortune 
was  to  have  a  furiously  jealous  husband,  and  they  say  he  went 
mad  after  hearing  the  verdict. 

Diana  was  talked  of  in  the  London  circles.  A  witty 
woman  is  such  salt  that,  where  she  has  once  been  tasted,  she 
must  perforce  be  missed  more  than  any  of  the  absent,  the 
dowering  heavens  not  having  yet  showered  her  like  very 
plentifully  upon  us.  Then  it  was  first  heard  that  Percy 
Dacier  had  been  traveling  with  her.  Miss  Asper  heard  of 
it.  Her  uncle,  Mr.  Quintin  Manx,  the  millionaire,  was  an 
acquaintance  of  the  new  judge  and  titled  dignitary.  Sir 
Cramborne  Wathin,  and  she  visited  Lady  Wathin,  at  whose 
table  the  report  in  the  journals  of  the  Nile-boat  party  was 
mentioned.  Lady  Wathin's  table  could  dispense  with  witty 
women,  and,  for  that  matter,  witty  men.  The  intrusion  of 
the  spontaneous  on  the  stereotyped  would  have  clashed. 
She  preferred,  as  hostess,  the  old  legal  anecdote  sure  of  their 
laugh,  and  the  citations  from  the  manufactories  of  fun  in 
the  press,  which  were  current  and  instantly  intelligible  to  all 
her  guests.     She  smiled  suavely  on  an  impromptu  pun,  be- 


156  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

cause  her  experience  of  the  humorous  appreciation  of  it  by 
her  guests  bade  her  welcome  the  upstart.  Nothing  else  im- 
promptu was  acceptable.  Mrs.  Warwick,  therefore,  was  not 
missed  by  Lady  Wathin.  "I  have  met  her/'  she  said.  "I 
confess  I  am  not  one  of  the  fanatics  about  Mrs.  Warwick. 
She  has  a  sort  of  skill  in  getting  men  to  clamor.  If  you 
stoop  to  tickle  them  they  will  applaud.  It  is  a  way  of  win- 
ning a  reputation."  When  the  ladies  were  separated  from 
the  gentlemen  by  the  stream  of  claret,  Miss  Asper  heard  Lady 
Wathin  speak  of  Mrs.  Warwick  again.  An  allusion  to  Lord 
Dannisburgh's  fit  of  illness  in  the  House  of  Lords  led  to  her 
saying  that  there  was  no  doubt  he  had  been  fascinated,  and 
that,  in  her  opinion,  Mrs.  Warwick  was  a  dangerous  woman. 
Sir  Cramborne  knew  something  of  Mr.  Warwick;  "Poor  man!" 
she  added.  A  lady  present  put  a  question  concerning  Mrs. 
Warwick's  beauty.  "Yes,"  Lady  Wathin  said,  "she  has  good 
looks  to  aid  her.  Judging  from  what  I  hear  and  have  seen, 
her  thirst  is  for  notoriety.  Sooner  or  later  we  shall  have  her 
making  a  noise,  you  may  be  certain.  Yes,  she  has  the  secret  of 
dressing  well — in  the  French  style." 

A  simple  newspaper  report  of  the  expedition  of  a  Nile- 
boat  party  could  stir  the  Powers  to  take  her  up  and  turn  her 
on  their  wheel  in  this  manner. 

But  others  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  London  were  re- 
gretting her  prolonged  absence.  The  great  and  exclusive 
Whitmonby,  who  had  dined  once  at  Lady  Wathin's  table, 
and  vowed  never  more  to  repeat  that  offense  to  his  patience, 
lamented  bitterly  to  Henry  Wilmers  that  the  sole  woman 
worthy  of  sitting  at  a  little  Sunday  evening  dinner  with  the 
cream  of  the  choicest  men  of  the  time  was  away  wasting  her- 
self in  that  insane  modern  chase  of  the  picturesque!  He 
called  her  a  perverted  Celimene. 

Eedworth  had  less  to  regret  than  the  rest  of  her  male 
friends,  as  he  was  receiving  at  intervals  pleasant  descriptive 
letters,  besides  manuscript  sheets  of  Antonia's  new  piece  of 
composition,  to  correct  the  proofs  for  the  press,  and  he  read 
them  critically,  he  thought.  He  read  them  with  a  watchful 
eye  to  guard  them  from  the  critics.  Antonia,  whatever  her 
faults  as  a  writer,  was  not  one  of  the  order  whose  muse  is 
the  Public  Taste.  She  did  at  least  draw  her  inspiration  from 
herself,  and  there  was  much  to  be  feared  in  her  work,  if  a 
sah  was  the  object.    Otherwise  Kedworth's  highly  critical 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  157 

perusal  led  him  flatly  to  admire.  This  was  like  her,  and 
that  was  like  her,  and  here  and  there  a  phrase  gave  him  the 
very  play  of  her  mouth,  the  flash  of  her  eyes.  Could  he 
possibly  wish,  or  bear,  to  have  anything  altered?  But  she 
had  reason  to  desire  an  extended  sale  of  the  work.  Her  aim, 
in  the  teeth  of  her  independent  style,  was  at  the  means  of 
independence — a  feminine  method  of  attempting  to  conciliate 
contraries;  and,  after  dispatching  the  last  sheets  to  the 
printer,  he  meditated  upon  the  several  ways  which  might 
serve  to  assist  her;  the  main  way  running  thus  in  his  mind: — 
We  have  a  work  of  genius.  Genius  is  good  for  the  public. 
What  is  good  for  the  public  should  be  recommended  by  the 
critics.  It  should  be.  How  then  to  come  at  them  to  get  it 
done?  As  he  was  not  a  member  of  the  honorable  literary 
craft,  and  regarded  its  arcana  altogether  externally,  it  may 
be  confessed  of  him  that  he  deemed  the  incorruptible  cor- 
ruptible; not,  of  course,  with  filthy  coin  slid  into  sticky 
palms.  Critics  are  human  and  exceedingly  beyond  the  com- 
mon lot  when  touched;  and  they  are  excited  by  mysterious 
hints  of  loftiness  in  authorship;  by  rumors  of  veiled  loveli- 
ness; whispers  of  a  general  anticipation;  and  also  editors 
can  jog  them.  Redworth  was  rising  to  be  a  railway  king  of 
a  period  soon  to  glitter  with  rails,  iron  in  the  concrete, 
golden  in  the  visionary.  He  had  already  his  court,  much 
against  his  will.  The  powerful  magnetic  attractions  of  those 
who  can  help  the  world  to  fortune  was  exercised  by  him  in 
spite  of  his  disgust  of  sycophants.  He  dropped  words  to 
right  and  left  of  a  coming  w^ork  by  Antonia.  And  who  was 
Antonia?  Ah!  there  hung  the  riddle.  An  exalted  person- 
age? So  much  so  that  he  dared  not  name  her  even  in  con- 
fidence to  ladies;  he  named  the  publishers.  To  men  he  said 
he  was  at  liberty  to  speak  of  her  only  as  the  most  beautiful 
woman  of  her  time.  His  courtiers  of  both  sexes  were  recom- 
mended to  read  the  new  story,  The  Princess  Egeria. 

Oddly,  one  great  lady  of  his  court  had  heard  a  forthcoming 
work  of  this  title  spoken  of  by  Percy  Dacier,  not  a  man  to 
read  silly  fiction,  unless  there  was  meaning  behind  the  lines; 
that  is,  rich  scandal  of  the  aristocracy,  diversified  by  sting- 
ing epigrams  to  the  address  of  discernible  personages.  She 
talked  of  The  Princess  Egeria;  nay,  laid  her  finger  on 
the  identical  princess.  Others  followed  her.  Dozens  were 
soon  flying  with  a  torch;  a  new  work  immediately  to  be  pub- 


158  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

lished  from  the  pen  of  the  Duchess  of  Stars!  And  the 
princess  who  lends  her  title  to  the  book  is  a  living  portrait 
of  the  Princess  of  Highest  Eminence,  the  Hope  of  all  Civili- 
zation. Orders  for  copies  of  The  Princess  Egeria  reached  the 
astonished  publishers  before  the  book  was  advertised. 

Speaking  to  editors,  Eedworth  complimented  them  with 
friendly  intimations  of  the  real  authorship  of  the  remarkable 
work  appearing.  He  used  a  certain  penetrative  mildness  of 
tone  in  saying  that  "he  hoped  the  book  would  succeed.'^  It 
deserved  to;  it  was  original;  but  the  originality  might  tell 
against  it.  All  would  depend  upon  a  favorable  launching 
of  such  a  book.  "^Irs.  Warwick?  Mrs.  Warwick?"  said 
the  most  influential  of  editors,  Mr.  Marcus  Tonans.  "What! 
that  singularly  handsome  woman?  ....  The  Dannis- 
burgh  affair?  ....  She's  Whitmonby's  heroine.  If 
she  writes  as  cleverly  as  she  talks,  her  work  is  worth  trumpet- 
ing.'' He  promised  to  see  that  it  went  into  good  hands  for 
the  review,  and  a  prompt  review — an  essential  point;  none  of 
your  long  digestions  of  the  contents. 

Diana's  indefatigable  friend  had  fair  assurances  that  her 
book  would  be  noticed  before  it  dropped  dead  to  the  public 
appetite  for  novelty.  He  was  anxious  next,  notwithstanding 
his  admiration  of  the  originality  of  the  conception  and  the 
cleverness  of  the  writing,  lest  the  Literary  Eeviews  should 
fail  "to  do  it  justice."  He  used  the  term;  for,  if  they 
wounded  her,  they  would  take  the  pleasure  out  of  success; 
and  he  had  always  present  to  him  that  picture  of  the  beloved 
woman  kneeling  at  the  fire-grate  at  The  Crossways,  which 
made  the  thought  of  her  suffering  any  wound  his  personal 
anguish,  so  crucially  sweet  and  saintly  had  her  image  then 
been  stamped  on  him.  He  bethought  him,  in  consequence, 
while  sitting  in  the  House  of  Commons,  engaged  upon  the 
affairs  of  the  nation,  and  honestly  engaged,  for  he  was  a 
vigilant  worker,  that  the  Irish  Secretary,  Charles  Rainer, 
with  whom  he  stood  in  amicable  relations,  had  an  interest, 
to  the  extent  of  reputed  ownership,  in  the  chief  of  the 
Literary  Eeviews.  He  saw  Eainer  on  the  benches,  and 
marked  him  to  speak  to  him.  Looking  for  him  shortly  after- 
ward, the  man  was  gone.  "Off  to  the  opera,  if  he's  not  too 
late  for  the  drop,"  a  neighbor  said,  smiling  queerly,  as 
though  he  ought  to  know  and  then  Eedworth  recollected  cur- 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  159 

rent  stories  of  Eainer's  fantastical  devotion  to  the  popular 
prima  donna  of  the  angelical  voice.  He  hurried  to  the  opera 
and  met  the  vomit,  and  heard  in  the  crush-room  how  divine 
she  had  been  that  night.  A  fellow  member  of  the  House, 
tolerably  intimate  with  Rainer,  informed  him,  between  fright- 
ful stomachic  roulades  of  her  final  aria,  of  the  likeliest  place 
where  Eainer  might  be  found  when  the  opera  was  over;  not 
at  his  Club,  nor  at  his  chambers;  on  one  of  the  bridges — 
Westminster,  he  fancied. 

There  was  no  need  for  Redworth  to  run  hunting  the  man 
at  so  late  an  hour,  but  he  was  drawn  on  by  the  similarity  in 
dissimilarity  of  this  devotee  of  a  woman,  who  could  worship 
her  at  a  distance,  and  talk  of  her  to  everybody.  Not  till  he 
beheld  Eainer's  tall  figure  cutting  the  bridge-parapet,  with 
a  star  over  his  shoulder,  did  he  reflect  on  the  views  the  other 
might  entertain  of  the  nocturnal  solicitation  to  see  "justice 
done"  to  a  lady's  new  book  in  a  particular  Eeview,  and  the 
absurd  outside  of  the  request  was  immediately  smothered  by 
the  natural  simplicity  and  pressing  necessity  of  its  inside. 

He  crossed  the  road  and  said,  "Ah!"  in  recognition.  "Were 
you  at  the  opera  this  evening?" 

"Oh,  just  at  the  end,"  said  Eainer,  pacing  forward.  "It's 
a  fine  night.     Did  you  hear  her?" 

"No;  too  late." 

Eainer  pressed  ahead,  to  meditate  by  himself,  as  was  his 
wont.  Finding  Eedworth  beside  him,  he  monologuized  in 
his  depths,  "They'll  kill  her.  She  puts  her  soul  into  it;  gives 
her  blood.  There's  no  failing  of  the  voice.  You  see  how  it 
wears  her.  She's  doomed.  Half  a  year's  rest  on  Como 
.  .  .  .  somewhere  ....  she  might  be  saved! 
She  won't  refuse  to  work." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  her?"  said  Eedworth. 

"And  next  to  Berlin!     Vienna!     A  horse  would  be I? 

I  don't  know  her,"  Eainer  replied.  "Some  of  their  women 
stand  it.  She's  delicately  built.  You  can't  treat  a  lute  like 
a  drum  without  destroying  the  instrument.  We  look  on  at  a 
murder!" 

The  haggard  prospect  from  that  step  of  the  climax  checked 
his  delivery. 

Eedworth  knew  him  to  be  a  sober  man  in  office,  a  man 
with  a  head  for  statecraft.     He  had  made  a  weighty  speech 


160  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

in  the  House  a  couple  of  hours  back.  This  opera  cantatrice, 
no  beauty,  though  gentle,  thrilling,  winning,  was  his  comer 
of  romance. 

"Do  you  come  here  often?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  can't  sleep." 

"London  at  night,  from  the  bridge  looks  fine.  By  the 
way    .     .     .     ." 

"It's  lonely  here,  that's  the  advantage,"  said  Rainer.  "I 
keep  silver  in  my  pocket  for  poor  girls  going  to  their  homes, 
and  I'm  left  in  peace.  An  hour  later,  there's  the  dawn  down 
yonder." 

"By  the  way,"  Eedworth  interposed,  and  was  told  that  after 
these  nights  of  her  singing  she  never  slept  till  morning.  He 
swallowed  the  fact,  sympathized  and  resumed:  "I  want  a 
email  favor." 

"No  business  here,  please!" 

^'Not  a  bit  of  it.  You  know  Mrs.  Warwick.  .... 
You  know  of  her.  She's  publishing  a  book.  I  want  you  to 
use  your  influence  to  get  it  noticed  quickly,  if  you  can." 

'Warwick?  Oh,  yes,  a  handsome  woman.  Ah,  yes;  the 
Dannisburgh  affair,  yes.  What  did  I  hear?  They  say  she's 
thick  with  Percy  Dacier  at  present.  Who  was  talking  of  her? 
Yes,  old  Lady  Dacier.     So  she's  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"She's  an  old  friend,"  said  Eedworth,  composing  himself; 
for  the  dose  he  had  taken  was  not  of  the  sweetest,  and  no 
protestations  could  be  uttered  by  a  man  of  the  world  to  repel 
a  charge  of  tattlers.  "The  truth  is,  her  book  is  clever.  I 
have  read  the  proofs.  She  must  have  an  income,  and  she 
won't  apply  to  her  husband;  and  literature  should  help  her,  if 
she's  fairly  treated.  She's  Irish  by  descent;  Merion's  daugh- 
ter, witty  as  her  father.  It's  odd  you  haven't  met  her.  The 
mere  writing  of  the  book  is  extraordinarily  good.  If  it's  put 
into  capable  hands  for  review,  that's  all  it  requires.  And  full 
of  life  ....  bright  dialogue  ....  capital  sketches. 
The  book's  a  piece  of  literature.  Only  it  must  have  compe- 
tent critics!" 

So  he  talked,  while  Rainer  ejaculated,  "Warwick?  War- 
wick?" in  the  irritating  tone  of  dozens  of  others.  "What 
did  I  hear  of  her  husband?  He  has  a  post  ....  Yes, 
yes.  Some  one  said  the  verdict  in  that  case  knocked  him 
over — ^heart  disease,  or  something." 

He  glanced  at  the  dark  Thames  water.    "Take  my  word 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  IGl 

for  it,  the  groves  of  xicademe  won't  compare  with  one  of  our 
bridges  at  night,  if  you  seek  philosophy.  You  see  the  Lon- 
don above  and  the  London  below;  round  us  the  sleepy  city, 
and  the  stars  in  the  water  looking  Hke  souls  of  suicides.  I 
caught  a  girl  with  a  bad  fit  on  her  once.  I  had  to  lecture 
her!  It's  when  we  become  parsons  we  find  out  our  cousinship 
with  these  poor  peripatetics,  whose  ^last  philosophy'  is  a  jump 
across  the  parapet.  The  bridge  at  night  is  a  bath  for  a  public 
man.     But  choose  another;  leave  me  mine." 

Redworth  took  the  hint.  He  stated  the  title  of  Mrs.  War- 
wick's book,  and  imagined,  from  the  thoughtful  cast  of 
Rainer's  head,  that  he  was  impressing  The  Princess  Egeria  on 
his  memory. 

Rainer  burst  out,  with  clenched  fists:  "He  beats  her! 
The  fellow  lives  on  her  and  beats  her;  strikes  that  woman! 
He  drags  her  about  to  every  capital  in  Europe  to  make  money 
for  him,  and  the  scoundrel  pays  her  with  blows." 

In  the  course  of  a  heavy  tirade  against  the  scoundrel, 
Eedworth  apprehended  that  it  was  the  cantatrice's  husband. 
He  expressed  his  horror  and  regret;  paused,  and  named  The 
Princess  Egeria  and  a  certain  Critical  Review.  Another 
outburst  seemed  to  be  in  preparation.  Nothing  further  was 
to  be  done  for  the  book  at  that  hour.  So,  with  a  blunt 
"Good  night,"  he  left  Charles  Rainer  pacing,  and  thought 
on  his  walk  home  of  the  strange  effects  wrought  by  women 
unwittingly  upon  men  (Englishmen);  those  women,  or  some 
of  them,  as  little  knowing  it  as  the  moon  her  traditional  in- 
fluence upon  the  tides.  He  thought  of  Percy  Dacier,  too. 
In  his  bed  he  could  have  wished  himself  peregrinating  a 
bridge. 

The  Princess  Egeria  appeared,  with  the  reviews  at  her 
heels,  a  pack  of  clappers,  causing  her  to  fly  over  editions 
clean  as  a  doe  the  gates  and  hedges — to  quote  Mr.  Sullivan 
Smith,  who  knew  not  a  sentence  of  the  work  save  what  he 
gathered  of  it  from  Redworth,  at  their  chance  meeting  on 
Piccadilly  pavement,  and  then  immediately  he  knew  enough 
to  blow  his  huntsman's  horn  in  honor  of  the  sale.  His  hallali 
rang  high.  "Here's  another  Irish  girl  to  win  their  laurels! 
'Tis  one  of  the  blazing  successes.  A  most  enthralling  work, 
beautifully  composed.  And  where  is  she  now,  Mr.  Redworth, 
since  she  broke  away  from  that  husband  of  hers,  that  wears 
the  clothes  of  the  worst  tailor  ever  begotten  by  a  thread  on  a 
u 


162  DIANA  OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

needle,  as  I  tell  every  soul  of  'em  in  my  part  of  the  country?" 

"You  have  seen  him?"  said  Redworth. 

"Why,  sir,  wasn't  he  on  show  at  the  court  he  applied  to 
for  relief  and  damages?  as  we  heard  when  we  were  watching 
the  case  daily,  scarce  drawing  our  breath  for  fear  the  inno- 
cent— and  one  of  our  own  blood — would  be  crushed.  Sure, 
there  he  stood;  ay,  and  looking  the  very  donkey  for  a  woman 
to  flip  off  her  fingers,  like  the  dust  from  my  great-uncle's  prize 
of  snuff!  She's  a  glory  to  the  old  country.  And  better  you 
than  another,  I'd  say,  since  it  wasn't  an  Irishman  to  have  her; 
but  what  induced  the  dear  lady  to  take  him  is  the  question 
we're  all  of  us  asking.  And  it's  mournful  to  think  that  some- 
how you  contrive  to  get  the  pick  of  us  in  the  girls!  If  ever 
we're  united  'twill  be  by  a  trick  of  circumvention  of  that  sort, 
pretty  sure.  There's  a  turn  in  the  market  when  they  shut  their 
eyes  and  drop  to  the  handiest;  and  London's  a  vortex  that 
poor  dear  dull  old  Dublin  can't  compete  with.  I'll  beg  you 
for  the  address  of  the  lady  her  friend,  Lady  Dunstane." 

Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  walked  with  Eedworth  through  the 
Park  to  the  House  of  Commons,  discoursing  of  Rails  and  his 
excellent  old  friend's  rise  to  the  top  rung  of  the  ladder  and 
Beanstalk  land,  so  elevated  that  one  had  to  look  up  at  him 
with  watery  eyes,  as  if  one  had  flung  a  ball  at  the  meridian 
sun.  Arrived  at  famed  St.  Stephen's  he  sent  in  his  compli- 
ments to  the  noble  patriot  and  accepted  an  invitation  to 
dinner. 

"And  mind  you  read  The  Princess  Egeria,"  said  Redworth. 

"Again  and  again,  my  friend.  The  book  is  bought."  Sul- 
livan Smith  slapped  his  breast-pocket. 

"There's  a  bit  of  Erin  in  it." 

"It  sprouts  from  Erin." 

"Trumpet  it." 

"Loud  as  cavalry  to  the  charge!" 

Once  with  the  title  stamped  on  his  memory  the  zealous 
Irishman  might  be  trusted  to  become  an  ambulant  adver- 
tiser. Others — personal  friends,  adherents,  courtiers  of  Red- 
worth's — were  active.  Lady  Pennon  and  Henry  Wilmers,  in 
the  upper  circle;  Whitmonby  and  Westlake,  in  the  literary; 
spread  the  fever  for  this  new  book.  The  chief  interpreter 
of  public  opinion  caught  the  way  of  the  wind  and  headed 
the  gale. 

Editions  of  the  book  did  really  run  like  fires  in  summer 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  163 

furze;  and  to  such  an  extent  that  a  simple  literary  perform- 
ance grew  to  be  respected  in  Great  Britain,  as  representing 
Money. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  AUTHORESS. 

The  effect  of  a  great  success  upon  Diana,  at  her  second 
literary  venture,  was  shown  in  the  transparent  sedateness  of 
a  letter  she  wrote  to  Emma  Dunstane  as  much  as  in  her  im- 
mediate and  complacent  acceptance  of  the  magical  change  of 
her  fortunes.  She  spoke  one  thing  and  acted  another,  but 
did  both  with  a  lofty  calm  that  deceived  the  admiring  friend, 
who  clearly  saw  the  authoress  behind  her  mask,  and  feared 
lest  she  should  be  too  confidently  trusting  to  the  powers  of  her 
pen  to  support  an  establishment. 

"If  the  public  were  a  perfect  instrument  to  strike  on,  I 
should  be  tempted  to  take  the  wonderful  success  of  my 
Princess  at  her  first  appearance  for  a  proof  of  natural  apti- 
tude in  composition,  and  might  think  myself  the  genius.  I 
know  it  to  be  as  little  a  Stradivarius  as  I  am  a  Paganini.  It 
is  an  eccentric  machine,  in  tune  with  me  for  the  moment,  be- 
cause I  happen  to  have  hit  it  in  the  ringing  spot.  The  book 
is  a  new  face  appealing  to  a  mirror  of  the  common  surface 
emotions;  and  the  kitchen  rather  than  the  dairy  offers  an 
analogy  for  the  real  value  of  that  'top-skim.'  I  have  not  seen 
what  I  consider  good  in  the  book  once  mentioned  among  the 
laudatory  notices — except  by  your  dear  hand,  my  Emmy.  Be 
sure  I  will  stand  on  guard  against  the  'vaporous  generaliza- 
tions' and  other  'tricks'  you  fear.  Now  that  you  are  studying 
Latin  for  an  occupation — how  good  and  wise  it  was  of  Mr. 
Redworth  to  propose  it! — I  look  upon  you  with  awe  as  a  classic 
authority  and  critic.  I  wish  I  had  leisure  to  study  with  you. 
What  I  do  is  nothing  like  so  solid  and  durable. 

"The  Princess  Egeria  originally  (I  must  have  written  word 
of  it  to  you — I  remember  the  evening  off  Palermo)  was  con- 
ceived as  a  sketch;  by  gradations  she  grew  into  a  sort  of  semi- 
Scudery  romancer,  and  swelled  to   her  present  portliness. 


164  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

This  was  done  by  a  great  deal  of  piecing,  not  to  say  puffing,  of 
her  frame.  She  would  be  healthier  and  have  a  chance  of 
living  longer  if  she  were  reduced  by  a  reversal  of  the  processes. 
But  how  would  the  judicious  clippings  and  prickings  affect 
our  ^pensive  public'?  'Now  that  I  have  furnished  a  house 
and  have  a  fixed  address,  under  the  paws  of  creditors,  I  feel  I 
am  in  the  wizard-circle  of  my  popularity  and  subscribe  to  its 
laws  or  waken  to  incubus  and  the  desert.  Have  I  been  rash? 
You  do  not  pronounce.  If  I  have  bound  myself  to  pipe  as 
others  please  it  need  not  be  entirely;  and  I  can  promise  you 
it  shall  not  be;  but  still  I  am  sensible  when  I  lift  my  'little 
quill'  of  having  forced  the  note  of  a  woodland  wren  into  the 
popular  nightingale's — which  may  end  in  the  daw's,  from 
straining;  or  worse,  a  toy-whistle. 

"That  is,  in  the  field  of  literature.  Otherwise,  within  me 
deep,  I  am  not  aware  of  any  transmutation  of  the  celestial 
into  coined  gold.  I  sound  myself,  and  ring  clear.  Incessant 
writing  is  my  refuge,  my  solace — escape  out  of  the  personal 
net.  I  delight  in  it,  as  in  my  early  morning  walks  at  Lugano, 
when  I  went  threading  the  streets  and  by  the  lake  away  to 
'the  heavenly  mount,'  like  a  dim  idea  worming  upward  in  a 
sleepy  head  to  bright  wakefulness. 

"My  anonymous  critic,  of  whom  I  told  you,  is  intoxicating 
with  eulogy.  The  signature  'Apollonius'  appears  to  be  of 
literary-middle  indication.  He  marks  passages  approved  by 
you.     I  have  also  had  a  complimentary  letter  from  Mr.  Dacier. 

"For  an  instance  of  this  delight  I  have  in  writing,  so 
strong  is  it  that  I  can  read  pages  I  have  written,  and  tear  the 
stuff  to  strips  (I  did  yesterday),  and  resume,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  The  waves  within  are  ready  for  any  displacement. 
That  must  be  a  good  sign.  I  do  not  doubt  of  excelling  my 
Princess;  and  if  she  received  compliments  the  next  may  hope 
for  more.  Consider,  too,  the  novel  pleasure  of  earning  money 
by  the  labor  we  delight  in.  It  is  an  answer  to  your  question 
whether  I  am  happy.  Yes,  as  the  savage  islander  before  the 
ship  entered  the  bay  with  the  fire-water.  My  blood  is  wine, 
and  I  have  the  slumbers  of  an  infant.  I  dream,  wake,  for- 
get my  dream,  barely  dress,  before  the  pen  is  galloping;  barely 
breakfast;  no  toilette  till  noon.  A  savage  in  good  sooth! 
You  see,  my  Emmy,  I  could  not  house  with  the  'companion- 
able person'  you  hint  at.  The  poles  can  never  come  together 
till  the  earth  is  crushed.     She  would  find  my  habits  intolera- 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  165 

ble,  and  I  hers  contemptible,  though  we  might  both  be  com- 
panionable persons.  My  dear,  I  could  not  even  live  with  my- 
self. My  blessed  little  quill,  which  helps  me  divinely  to  live 
out  of  myself,  is  and  must  continue  to  be  my  one  companion. 
It  is  my  mountain  height,  morning  light,  wings,  cup  from  the 
springs,  my  horse,  my  goal,  my  lancet  and  replenisher,  my  key 
of  communication  with  the  highest,  grandest,  holiest  between 
earth  and  heaven — the  vital  air  connecting  them. 

"In  justice  let  me  add  that  I  have  not  been  troubled  by 
hearing  of  any  of  the  mysterious  legal  claims,  et  cetera.  I  am 
sorry  to  hear  bad  reports  of  health.  I  wish  him  entire  felicity 
— no  step  taken  to  bridge  division!  The  thought  of  it  makes 
me  tigerish. 

"A  new  pianist  playing  his  own  pieces  (at  Lady  Single- 
by's  concert)  has  given  me  exquisite  pleasure  and  set  me  com- 
posing songs — not  to  his  music,  which  could  be  rendered  only 
by  sylphs  moving  to  'soft  recorders'  in  the  humor  of  wildness, 
languor,  bewitching  caprices,  giving  a  new  sense  to  melody. 
How  I  wish  you  had  been  with  me  to  hear  him!  It  was  the 
most  Aeolian  thing  ever  caught  from  a  night-breeze  by  the 
soul  of  a  poet. 

"But  do  not  suppose  me  having  headlong  tendencies  to 
the  melting  mood.  (The  above,  by  the  way,  is  a  Pole  settled 
in  Paris,  and  he  is  to  be  introduced  to  me  at  Lady  Pennon's.) 
What  do  you  say  to  my  being  invited  by  Mr.  Whitmonby  to 
aid  him  in  writing  leading  articles  for  the  paper  he  is  going 
to  conduct!  'Write  as  you  talk  and  it  will  do,' he  says.  lam 
choosing  my  themes.  To  write — of  politics — as  I  talk,  seems 
to  me  like  an  effort  to  jump  away  from  my  shadow.  The 
black  dog  of  consciousness  declines  to  be  shaken  off.  If  some 
one  commanded  me  to  talk  as  I  write,  I  suspect  it  would  be  a 
way  of  winding  me  up  to  a  sharp  critical  pitch  rapidly. 

"Not  good  news  of  Lord  D.  I  have  had  messages.  Mr. 
Dacier  conceals  his  alarm.  The  Princess  gave  great  gratifi- 
cation. She  did  me  her  best  service  there.  Is  it  not  cruel  that 
the  interdict  of  the  censor  should  force  us  to  depend  for 
information  upon  such  scraps  as  I  get  from  a  gentleman  pass- 
ing my  habitation  on  his  way  to  the  House?  And  he  is  not, 
he  never  has  been,  sj^mpathetic  in  that  direction.  He  sees  my 
grief,  and  assumes  an  undertakerly  air,  with  some  notion  of 
acting  in  concert,  one  supposes — little  imagining  how  I  revolt 
from  that  crape  hatband  formalism  of  sorrow! 


0 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 


"One  word  of  her  we  call  our  inner  I.  I  am  not  drawing 
upon  her  resources  for  my  daily  needs;  not  wasting  her  at  all, 
I  trust;  certainly  not  walling  her  up  to  deafen  her  voice.  It 
would  be  to  fall  away  from  you.  She  bids  me  sign  myself, 
my  beloved,  ever,  ever  your  Tony.'^ 

The  letter  had  every  outward  show  of  sincereness  in  ex- 
pression, and  was  endowed  to  wear  that  appearance  by  the 
writer's  impulse  to  protest  with  so  resolute  a  vigor  as  to  de- 
lude herself.  Lady  Dunstane  heard  of  Mr.  Dacier's  novel  at- 
tendance at  concerts.  The  world  made  a  note  of  it;  for  the 
gentleman  was  notoriously  without  ear  for  music. 

Diana's  comparison  of  her  hours  of  incessant  writing  to  her 
walks  under  the  dawn  at  Lugano,  her  boast  of  the  similarity 
of  her  delight  in  both,  deluded  her  uncorrupted  conscience 
to  believe  that  she  was  now  spiritually  as  free  as  in  that  fair 
season  of  the  new  spring  in  her  veins.  She  was  not  an  in- 
vestigating physician,  nor  was  Lady  Dunstane,  otherwise  they 
would  have  examined  the  material  points  of  her  conduct — 
indicators  of  the  spiritual  secret  always.  What  are  the  pa- 
tient's acts?  The  patient's  mind  was  projected  too  far  be- 
yond them  to  see  the  forefinger  they  stretched  at  her;  and 
the  friend's  was  not  that  of  a  prying  doctor  on  the  look-out 
for  betraying  symptoms.  Lady  Dunstane  did  ask  herself  why 
Tony  should  have  incurred  the  burden  of  a  costly  household — 
a  very  costly:  Sir  Lukin  had  been  at  one  of  Tony's  little  din- 
ners; but  her  wish  to  meet  the  world  on  equal  terms,  after 
a  long  dependency,  accounted  for  it  in  seeming  to  excuse. 
The  guests  on  the  occasion  were  Lady  Pennon,  Lady  Single- 
by,  Mr.  Whitmonby,  Mr.  Percy  Dacier,  Mr.  Tonans; — "Some 
other  women,"  Sir  Lukin  said,  and  himself.  He  reported  the 
cookery  as  matching  the  conversation,  and  that  was  prince- 
ly; the  wines  not  less :  an  extraordinary  fact  to  note  of  a  wom- 
an. But  to  hear  Whitmonby  and  Diana  Warwick!  How  he 
told  a  story,  neat  as  a  postman's  knock,  and  she  tipped  it  with 
a  remark  and  ran  to  a  second,  drawing  in  Lady  Pennon,  and 
then  Dacier,  "and  me!"  cried  Sir  Lukin;  "she  made  us  all  toss 
'^  the  ball  from  hand  to  hand,  and  all  talk  up  to  the  mark;  and 
\*  none  of  us  noticed  that  we  all  went  together  to  the  drawing- 
\ 'room,  where  we  talked  for  another  hour,  and  broke  up  fresher 
'than  we  began." 
^'^  "That  break  between  the  men  and  the  women  after  dinner 


\ 


DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  167 

was  Tony's  aversion,  and  I  am  glad  she  has  instituted  a 
change/'  said  Lady  Dunstane. 

She  heard  also  from  Eedworth  of  the  unexampled  concert 
of  the  guests  at  Mrs.  Warwick's  dinner  parties.  He  had 
met  on  one  occasion  the  Esquarts,  the  Pettigrews,  Mr.  Percy 
Dacier,  and  a  Miss  Paynham.  Redwerth  had  not  a  word  to 
say  of  the  expensive  household.  Whatever  Mrs.  Warwick  did 
was  evidently  good  to  him.  On  another  evening  the  party 
was  composed  of  Lady  Pennon,  Lord  Larrian,  Miss  Paynham, 
a  clever  Mrs.  Wollasley,  Mr.  Henry  Wilmers,  and  again  Mr. 
Percy  Dacier. 

When  Diana  came  to  Copsley,  Lady  Dunstane  remarked  on 
the  recurrence  of  the  name  of  Miss  Paynham  in  the  list  of  her 
guests. 

"And  Mr.  Percy  Dacier's,  too,"  said  Diana,  smiling.  "They 
are  invited  each  for  specific  reasons.  It  pleases  Lord  Dan- 
nisburgh  to  hear  that  a  way  has  been  found  to  enliven  his 
nephew;  and  my  little  dinners  are  effective,  I  think.  He 
wakes.  Yesterday  evening  he  capped  flying  jests  with  Mr. 
Sullivan  Smith.  But  you  speak  of  Miss  Paynham."  Diana 
lowered  her  voice  on  half-a-dozen  syllables,  till  the  half-tones 
dropped  into  her  steady  look.     "You  approve,  Emmy?" 

The  answer  was:    "I  do — true  or  not." 

"Between  us  two,  dear,  I  fear!  ...  In  either  case,  she 
has  been  badly  used.  Society  is  big  engine  enough  to  pro- 
tect itself.  I  incline  with  British  juries  to  do  rough  justice 
to  the  victims.  She  has  neither  father  nor  brother.  I  have 
had  no  confidences:  but  it  wears  the  look  of  a  cowardly 
business.  With  two  words  in  his  ear  I  could  arm  an  Irishman 
to  do  some  work  of  chastisement: — he  would  select  the  ras- 
cal's necktie  for  a  cause  of  quarrel:  and  lords  have  to  stand 
their  ground  as  well  as  commoners.  They  measure  the  same 
number  of  feet  when  stretched  their  length.  However,  ven- 
geance with  the  heavens!  though  they  seem  tardy.  Lady 
Pennon  has  been  very  kind  about  it:  and  the  Esquarts  invite 
her  to  Lockton.  Shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  tide  may  be 
stemmed." 

"She  would  have  gone  under  but  for  you,  dear  Tony!" 
said  Emma,  folding  arms  round  her  darling's  neck  and  kiss- 
ing her.    "Bring  her  here  some  day." 

Diana  did  not  promise  it.  She  had  her  vision  of  Sir  Lukin 
in  his  fit  of  lunacy. 


168  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"I  am  too  weak  for  London  now,"  Emma  resumed.  "I 
should  like  to  be  useful.    Is  she  pleasant?'^ 

"Sprightly  by  nature.    She  has  worn  herself  with  fretting." 

"Then  bring  her  to  stay  with  me,  if  I  cannot  keep  you.  She 
will  talk  of  you  to  me." 

"I  will  bring  her  for  a  couple  of  days,"  Diana  said.  "I  am 
too  busy  to  remain  longer.  She  paints  portraits  to  amuse  her- 
self. She  ought  to  be  pushed,  wherever  she  is  received  about 
London,  while  the  season  is  warm.  One  season  will  suffice  to 
establish  her.  She  is  pretty,  near  upon  six-and-twenty:  fool- 
ish, of  course:  she  pays  for  having  had  a  romantic  head. 
Heavy  payment,  Emmy!  I  drive  at  laws,  but  hers  is  an  in- 
stance of  the  creatures'  wanting  simple  human  kindness." 

"The  good  law  will  come  with  a  better  civilization;  but 
before  society  can  be  civilized  it  has  to  be  de-barbarized," 
Emma  remarked,  and  Diana  sighed  over  the  task  and  the 
truism. 

"I  should  have  said  in  younger  days,  because  it  will  not 
look  plainly  on  our  nature  and  try  to  reconcile  it  with  our 
conditions.  But  now  I  see  that  the  sin  is  cowardice.  The 
more  I  know  of  the  world  the  more  clearly  I  perceive  that  its 
top  and  bottom  sin  is  cowardice,  physically  and  morally  alike. 
Lord  Larrian  owns  to  there  being  few  heroes  in  an  army. 
We  must  fawn  in  society.  What  is  the  meaning  of  that  dread 
of  one  example  of  tolerance?  0!  my  dear,  let  us  give  it  the 
right  name.  Society  is  the  best  thing  we  have,  but  it  is  a 
crazy  vessel  worked  by  a  crew  that  formerly  practiced  piracy, 
and  now,  in  expiation,  professes  piety,  fearful  of  a  discovered 
omnipotence,  which  is  in  the  image  of  themselves  and  cap- 
tain. Their  old  habits  are  not  quite  abandoned,  and  their 
new  one  is  used  as  a  lash  to  whip  the  exposed  of  us  for  a  pro- 
pitiation of  the  capricious  potentate  whom  they  worship  in  the 
place  of  the  true  God." 

Lady  Dunstane  sniffed.    "I  smell  the  leading  article." 

Diana  joined  with  her  smile,  "No,  the  style  is  rather  dif- 
ferent." 

"Have  you  not  got  into  a  trick  of  composing  in  speaking, 
at  times?" 

Diana  confessed,  "I  think  I  have  at  times.  Perhaps  the 
daily  writing  of  all  kinds  and  the  nightly  talking  ...  I 
may  be  getting  strained." 

"No,  Tony;  but  longer  visits  in  the  country  to  me  would 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  169 

refresh  you.  I  miss  your  lighter  touches.  London  is  a 
school,  but — ^you  know  it — not  a  school  for  comedy  nor  for 
philosophy;  that  is  gathered  on  my  hills,  with  London  dis- 
tantly in  view,  and  then  occasional  descents  on  it  well  di- 
gested." 

"I  wonder  whether  it  is  affecting  me!"  said  Diana,  mus- 
ing. "A  metropolitan  hack!  and,  while  thinking  myself  free, 
thrice  harnessed;  and  all  my  fun  gone.  Am  I  really  as  dull 
as  a  tract,  my  dear?  I  must  be,  or  I  should  be  proving  the 
contrary  instead  of  asking.  My  pitfall  is  to  fancy  I  have 
powers  equal  to  the  first  look-out  of  the  eyes  of  the  morning. 
Enough  of  me.  We  talked  of  Mary  Paynham.  If  only  some 
right  good  man  would  marry  her!" 

Lady  Dunstane  guessed  at  the  right  good  man  in  Diana's 
mind.    "Do  you  bring  them  together?" 

Diana  nodded,  and  then  shook  doleful  negatives  to  signify 
no  hope. 

"None  whatever;  if  we  mean  the  same  person,"  said  Lady 
Dunstane,  bethinking  her,  in  the  spirit  of  wrath  she  felt  at 
such  a  scheme  being  planned  by  Diana  to  snare  the  right  good 
man,  that  instead  of  her  own  true  lover,  Eedworth,  it  might 
be  only  Percy  Dacier.  So  tenuous  of  mere  sensations  are 
these  little  ideas  as  they  flit  in  converse  that  she  did  not  re- 
flect on  her  friend's  ignorance  of  Eedworth's  love  of  her,  or 
on  the  unlikely  choice  of  one  in  Dacier's  high  station  to  rein- 
state a  damsel. 

They  did  not  name  the  person. 

"Passing  the  instance,  which  is  cruel,  I  will  be  just  to  so- 
ciety thus  far,"  said  Diana.  "I  was  in  a  boat  at  Eichmond 
last  week,  and  Leander  was  revelling  along  the  mud-banks, 
and  took  it  into  his  head  to  swim  out  to  me,  and  I  was  moved 
to  take  him  on  board.  The  ladies  in  the  boat  objected,  for  he 
was  not  only  wet  but  very  muddy.  I  was  forced  to  own  that 
their  objections  were  reasonable.  My  sentimental  humane- 
ness had  no  argument  against  muslin  dresses,  though  my  dear 
dog's  eyes  appealed  pathetically,  and  he  would  keep  swim- 
ming after  us.  The  analogy  excuses  the  world  for  protect- 
ing itself  in  extreme  cases;  nothing — nothing  excuses  its  in- 
sensibility to  cases  which  may  be  pleaded.  You  see  the  pirate 
crew  turned  pious — ferocious  in  sanctity."  She  added,  half 
laughing:  "I  am  reminded  by  the  boat,  I  have  unveiled  my 
anonymous  critic,  and  had  a  woeful  disappointment.     He 


170  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

wrote  like  a  veteran;  he  is  not  much  more  than  a  boy.  I  re- 
ceived a  volume  of  verse,  and  a  few  lines  begging  my  ac- 
ceptance. I  fancied  I  knew  the  writing,  and  wrote  asking 
him  whether  I  had  not  to  thank  him,  et  cetera,  and  inviting 
him  to  call.  He  seems  a  nice  lad  of  about  two  and  twenty, 
mad  for  literature;  and  he  must  have  talent.  Arthur  Rhodes 
by  name.  I  may  have  a  chance  of  helping  him.  He  was  an 
articled  clerk  of  Mr.  Braddock's,  the  same  who  valiently  came 
to  my  rescue  once.    He  was  with  us  in  the  boat." 

"Bring  him  to  me  some  day,"  said  Lady  Dunstane. 

Miss  Paynham's  visit  to  Copsley  was  arranged,  and  it  turned 
out  a  failure.  The  poor  young  lady  came  in  a  flutter,  think- 
ing that  the  friend  of  Mrs.  Warwick  would  expect  her  to  dis- 
course cleverly.  She  attempted  it,  to  Diana's  amazement. 
Lady  Dunstane's  opposingly  corresponding  stillness  provoked 
Miss  Paynham  to  expatiate,  for  she  had  sprightliness  and  some 
mental  reserves  of  the  common  order.  Clearly,  Lady  Dun- 
stane mused  while  listening  amiably,  Tony  never  could  have 
designed  this  gabbler  for  the  mate  of  Thomas  Red  worth! 

Percy  Dacier  seemed  to  her  the  more  likely  one,  in  that 
light,  and  she  thought  so  still,  after  Sir  Lukin  had  intro- 
duced him  at  Copsley  for  a  couple  of  days  of  the  hunting 
season.  Tony's  manner  with  him  suggested  it;  she  had  a  dash 
of  leadership.    They  were  not  intimate  in  look  or  tongue. 

But  Percy  Dacier  also  was  too  good  for  Miss  Paynham,  if 
that  was  Tony's  plan  for  him,  Lady  Dunstane  thought,  with 
the  relentlessness  of  an  invalid  and  recluse's  distaste.  An  as- 
pect of  penitence  she  had  not  demanded,  but  the  silly  gab- 
bler under  a  stigma  she  could  not  pardon. 

Her  opinion  of  Miss  Paynham  was  diffused  in  her  silence. 

Speaking  of  Mr.  Dacier  she  remarked,  "As  you  say  of  him, 
Tony,  he  can  brighten,  and  when  you  give  him  a  chance  he  is 
entertaining.  He  has  fine  gifts.  If  I  were  a  member  of  his 
family  I  should  beat  about  for  a  match  for  him.  He  strikes 
us  as  one  of  the  young  men  who  would  do  better  married." 

"He  is  doing  very  well,  but  the  wonder  is  that  he  doesn't 
marry,"  said  Diana.  "He  ought  to  be  engaged.  Lady  Es- 
quart  told  me  that  he  was.  A  Miss  Asper — great  heiress;  and 
the  Daciers  want  money.    However,  there  it  is." 

Not  many  weeks  later  Diana  could  not  have  spoken  of  Mr. 
Percy  Dacier  with  this  air  of  indifference  without  corruption 
of  her  inward  guide, 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  171 


CHAPTEE   XIX. 
A  DRIVE  IN  SUNLIGHT  AND  A  DRIVE  IN  MOONLIGHT. 

The  fatal  time  to  come  for  her  was  in  the  summer  of  that 
year. 

Emma  had  written  her  a  letter  of  unwonted  bright  spirits, 
contrasting  strangely  with  an  inexplicable  oppression  of  her 
own  that  led  her  to  imagine  her  recent  placid  life  the  pause 
before  thunder,  and  to  share  the  mood  of  her  solitary  friend 
she  flew  to  Copsley,  finding  Sir  Lukin  absent,  as  usual.  They 
drove  out  immediately  after  breakfast,  on  one  of  those  high 
mornings  of  the  bared  bosom  of  June  when  distances  are  given 
to  our  eyes,  and  a  soft  air  fondles  leaf  and  grass-blade,  and 
beauty  and  peace  are  overhead,  reflected,  if  we  will.  Eain  had 
fallen  in  the  night.  Here  and  there  hung  a  milkwhite  cloud 
with  folded  sail.  The  southwest  left  it  its  bay  of  blue,  and 
breathed  below.  At  moments  the  fresh  scent  of  herb  and 
mould  swung  richly  in  warmth.  The  young  beech-leaves  glit- 
tered, pools  of  rainwater  made  the  roadways  laugh,  the  grass- 
banks  under  hedges  rolled  their  interwoven  weeds  in  cas- 
cades of  many-shaded  green  to  right  and  left  of  the  pair  of 
dappled  ponies,  and  a  squirrel  crossed  ahead,  a  lark  went  up 
a  little  way  to  ease  his  heart,  closing  his  wings  when  the 
burst  was  over,  startled  blackbirds,  darting  with  a  clamor  like 
a  broken  cockcrow,  looped  the  wayside  woods  from  hazel  to 
oak-scrub;  short  flights,  quick  spirits  everywhere,  steady  sun- 
shine above. 

Diana  held  the  reins.  The  whip  was  an  ornament,  as  the 
plume  of  feathers  to  the  general  officer.  Lady  Dunstane's 
ponies  were  a  present  from  Redworth,  who  always  chose  the 
pick  of  the  land  for  his  gifts.  They  joyed  in  their  trot,  and 
were  the  very  love-birds  of  the  breed  for  their  pleasure  of 
going  together,  so  like  that  Diana  called  them  the  Dromios. 
Through  an  old  gravel-cutting  a  gateway  led  to  the  turf  of 
the  down,  springy  turf  bordered  on  a  long  line,  clear  as  a 
racecourse,  by  golden  gorse  covers,  and  leftward  over  the 
gorse  the  dark  ridge  of  the  fir  and  heath  country  ran  com- 
panionably  to  the  southwest,  the  valley  between,  with  un- 


172  DIANA  OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

dulations  of  wood  and  meadow  sunned  or  shaded,  clumps, 
mounds,  promontories,  away  to  broad  spaces  of  tillage  banked 
by  wooded  hills,  and  dimmer  beyond,  and  further  the  faintest 
shadowiness  of  heights,  as  a  veil  to  the  illimitable.  Yews, 
junipers,  radiant  beeches,  and  gleams  of  the  service-tree  or 
the  white-beam  spotted  the  semi-circle  of  swelling  green  down 
black  and  silver.  The  sun  in  the  valley  sharpened  his  beams 
on  squares  of  buttercups,  and  made  a  pond  a  diamond. 

"You  see,  Tony,"  Emma  said,  for  a  comment  on  the  scene, 
"I  could  envy  Italy  for  having  you,  more  than  you  for  being 
in  Italy." 

"Feature  and  color!"  said  Diana.  "You  have  them  here, 
and  on  a  scale  that  one  can  embrace.  I  should  like  to  build 
a  hut  on  this  point,  and  wait  for  such  a  day  to  return.  It 
brings  me  to  life."  She  lifted  her  eyelids  on  her  friend's  worn 
sweet  face,  and  knowing  her  this  friend  up  to  death,  past  it 
in  her  hopes,  she  said  bravely,  "It  is  the  Emma  of  days  and 
scenes  to  me!  It  helps  me  to  forget  myself,  as  I  do  when  I 
think  of  you  dearest;  but  the  subject  has  latterly  been  haunt- 
ing me,  I  don't  know  why,  and  ominously,  as  if  my  nature 
were  about  to  horrify  my  soul.  But  I  am  not  sentimentaliz- 
ing, you  are  really  this  day  and  scene  in  my  heart."  Emma 
smiled  confiding^.  She  spoke  her  reflection:  "The  heart 
must  be  troubled  a  little  to  have  the  thought.  The  flower  I 
gather  here  tells  me  that  we  may  be  happy  in  privation  and 
suffering  if  simply  we  can  accept  beauty.  I  won't  say  expel 
the  passions,  but  keep  passion  sober,  a  trotter  in  harness." 

Diana  caressed  the  ponies'  heads  with  the  droop  of  her 
whip:    "I  don't  think  I  know  him!"  she  said. 

Between  sincerity  and  a  suspicion  so  cloaked  and  dull  that 
she  did  not  feel  it  to  be  the  opposite  of  candor,  she  fancied 
she  was  passionless  because  she  could  accept  the  visible  beauty, 
which  was  Emma's  prescription  and  test;  and  she  forced  her- 
self to  make  much  of  it,  cling  to  it,  devour  it;  with  envy  of 
Emma's  contemplative  happiness,  through  whose  grave  mind 
she  tried  to  get  to  the  peace  in  it,  imagining  that  she  suc- 
ceeded. The  cloaked  and  dull  suspicion  weighed  within  her 
nevertheless.  She  took  it  for  a  mania  to  speculate  on  herself. 
There  are  states  of  the  crimson  blood  when  the  keenest  wits 
are  childish,  notably  in  great-hearted  women  aiming  at  the 
majesty  of  their  sex  and  fearful  of  confounding  it  by  the  look 
direct  and  the  downright  word.    Yet  her  nature  compelled  her 


DIANA    OP  THE   CROSSWAYS.  173 

inwardly  to  phrase  the  sent'ence:  "Emma  is  a  wife!"  The 
character  of  her  husband  was  not  considered,  nor  was  the 
meaning  of  the  exclamation  pursued. 

They  drove  through  the  gorse  into  wild  land  of  heath  and 
flowering  hawthorn,  and  along  by  tracts  of  yew  and  juniper 
to  another  point,  jutting  on  a  furzy  sand-mound,  rich  with 
the  mild  splendor  of  English  scenery,  which  Emma  stamped 
on  her  friend's  mind  by  saying:  "A  cripple  has  little  to  envy 
in  you  who  can  fly  when  she  has  feasts  like  these  at  her 
doors." 

They  had  an  inclination  to  boast  on  the  drive  home  of  the 
solitude  they  had  enjoyed;  and  just  then,  as  the  road  in  the 
wood  wound  under  great  beeches,  they  beheld  a  London  hat. 
The  hat  was  plucked  from  its  head.  A  clear-faCed  youth, 
rather  flushed,  dusty  at  the  legs,  addressed  Diana. 

"Mr.  Rhodes!''  she  said,  not  discouragingly. 

She  was  petitioned  to  excuse  him;  he  thought  she  would 
wish  to  hear  the  news  in  town  last  night  as  early  as  possible; 
he  hesitated  and  murmured  it. 

Diana  turned  to  Emma:  "Lord  Dannisburgh!" — her  pale- 
ness told  the  rest. 

Hearing  from  Mr.  Ehodes  that  he  had  walked  the  distance 
from  town,  and  had  been  to  Copsley,  Lady  Dunstane  invited 
him  to  follow  the  pony-carriage  thither,  where  he  was  fed 
and  refreshed  by  a  tea-breakfast,  as  he  preferred  walking  on 
tea,  he  said.  "I  took  the  liberty  to  call  at  Mrs.  Warwick's 
house,"  he  informed  her;  "the  footman  said  she  was  at  Cops- 
ley.  I  found  it  on  the  map — I  knew  the  direction — and  start- 
ed about  two  in  the  morning.    I  wanted  a  walk." 

It  was  evident  to  her  that  he  was  one  of  the  young  squires 
bewitched  whom  beautiful  women  are  constantly  enlisting. 
There  was  no  concealment  of  it,  though  he  stirred  a  sad  en- 
viousness  in  the  invalid  lady  by  descanting  on  the  raptures  of 
a  walk  out  of  London  in  the  youngest  light  of  day,  and  on  the 
common  objects  he  had  noticed  along  the  roadside,  and 
through  the  woods,  more  sustaining,  closer  with  nature  than 
her  compulsory  feeding  on  the  cream  of  things. 

"You  are  not  fatigued?"  she  inquired,  hoping  for  that  con- 
fession at  least;  but  she  pardoned  his  boyish  vaunting  to  walk 
the  distance  back  without  any  fatigue  at  all. 

He  had  a  sweeter  reward  for  his  pains;  and,  if  the  busi- 
ness of  the  chronicler  allowed  him  to  become  attached  to  pure 


174  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

throbbing  felicity  wherever  it  is  encountered,  he  might  be 
diverted  by  the  blissful  unexpectedness  of  good  fortune  be- 
falling Mr.  Arthur  Ehodes  in  having  the  honor  to  conduct 
Mrs.  Warwick  to  town.  No  imagined  happiness,  even  in  the 
heart  of  a  young  man  of  two-and-twenty,  could  have  matched 
it.  He  was  by  her  side,  hearing  and  seeing  her,  not  less  than 
four  hours.  To  add  to  his  happiness,  Lady  Dunstane  said 
she  would  be  glad  to  welcome  him  again.  She  thought  him 
a  pleasant  specimen  of  the  self -vowed  squire. 

Diana  was  sure  that  there  would  be  a  communication  for 
her  of  some  sort  at  her  house  in  London;  perhaps  a  message  of 
farewell  from  the  dying  lord,  now  dead.  Mr.  Ehodes  had 
only  the  news  of  the  evening  journals,  to  the  effect  that  Lord 
Dannisburgh  had  expired  at  his  residence,  the  Priory,  Hal- 
lowmere,  in  Hampshire.  A  message  of  farewell  from  him  she 
hoped  for:  knowing  him  as  she  did  it  seemed  a  certainty;  and 
she  hungered  for  that  last  gleam  of  life  in  her  friend.  She 
had  no  anticipation  of  the  burden  of  the  message  awaiting 
her. 

A  consultation  as  to  the  despatching  of  the  message  had 
taken  place  among  the  members  of  Lord  Dannisburgh's  fam- 
ily present  at  his  death.  Percy  Dacier  was  one  of  them,  and 
he  settled  the  disputed  point,  after  some  time  had  been  spent 
in  persuading  his  father  to  take  the  plain  view  of  obligation 
in  the  matter,  and  in  opposing  the  dowager  countess,  his  grand- 
mother, by  stating  that  he  had  already  sent  a  special  mes- 
senger to  London.  Lord  Dannisburgh  on  his  death-bed  had 
expressed  a  wish  that  Mrs.  Warwick  would  sit  with  him  for 
an  hour  one  night  before  the  nails  were  knocked  in  his  coffin. 
He  spoke  of  it  twice,  putting  it  the  second  time  to  Percy  as 
a  formal  request  to  be  made  to  her,  and  Percy  had  promised 
him  that  Mrs.  Warwick  should  have  the  message.  He  had 
done  his  best  to  keep  his  pledge,  aware  of  the  disrelish  of  the 
whole  family  for  the  lady's  name,  to  say  nothing  of  her  pres- 
ence. 

"She  won't  come,"  said  the  earl. 

"She'll  come,"  said  old  Lady  Dacier. 

"If  the  woman  respects  herself  she'll  hold  off  it,"  the  earl 
insisted  because  of  his  desire  that  way:  He  signified  in  mut- 
terings  that  the  thing  was  improper  and  absurd,  a  piece  of 
sentiment,  sickly  senility,  unlike  Lord  Dannisburgh.  Also 
that  Percy  had  been  guilty  of  excessive  folly. 


DIANA   OF   THE  CROSSWAYS.  175 

To  whicli  Lady  Dacier  nodded  her  assent,  remaivking:  "The 
woman  is  on  her  mettle.  From  what  Tve  heard  of  her  she's 
not  a  woman  to  stick  at  trifles.  She'll  take  it  as  a  sort  of 
ordeal  by  touch,  and  she'll  come." 

They  joined  in  abusing  Percy,  who  had  driven  away  to  an- 
other part  of  the  country.  Lord  Creedmore,  the  heir  of  the 
house,  was  absent,  hunting  in  America,  or  he  might  tempo- 
rarily have  been  taken  into  favor  by  contrast.  Ultimately  they 
agreed  that  the  woman  must  be  allowed  to  enter  the  house,  but 
could  not  be  received.  The  earl  was  a  widower;  his  mother  man- 
aged the  family,  and,  being  hard  to  convince,  she  customarily 
carried  her  point,  save  when  it  involved  Percy's  freedom  of  ac- 
tion. She  was  one  of  the  veterans  of  her  sex  that  age  to 
toughness;  and  the  "hysterical  fuss"  she  apprehended  in  the 
visit  of  this  woman  to  Lord  Dannisburgh's  death-bed  and  body 
did  not  alarm  her.  For  the  sake  of  the  household  she  deter- 
mined to  remain,  shut  up  in  her  room.  Before  night  the 
house  was  empiy  of  any  members  of  the  family  excepting  old 
Lady  Creedmore  and  the  outstretched  figure  on  the  bed. 

Dacier  fled  to  escape  the  hearing  of  the  numberless  ejacu- 
lations re-awakened  in  the  family  by  his  uncle's  extraordinary 
dying  request.  They  were  an  outrage  to  the  lady,  of  whom 
he  could  now  speak  as  a  privileged  champion;  and  the  request 
itself  had  an  air  of  proving  her  stainless,  a  white  soul  and  effi- 
cacious ad^^ocate  at  the  celestial  gates  (reading  the  mind  of 
the  dying  man).  So  he  thought  at  one  moment:  he  had 
thought  so  when  charged  with  the  message  to  her;  had  even 
thought  it  a  natural  wish  that  she  should  look  once  on  the 
face  she  would  see  no  more,  and  say  farewell  to  it,  considering 
that  in  life  it  could  not  be  requested.  But  the  susceptibility 
to  sentimental  emotion  beside  a  death-bed,  with  a  dying  man's 
voice  in  the  ear,  requires  fortification  if  it  is  to  be  maintained; 
and  the  review  of  his  uncle's  character  did  not  tend  to  make 
this  very  singular  request  a  proof  that  the  lady's  innocence 
was  honored  in  it.  His  epicurean  uncle  had  no  profound  es- 
teem for  the  kind  of  innocence.  He  had  always  talked  of  Mrs. 
Warwick  with  a  warm  respect  for  her:  Dacier  knew  that  he 
had  bequeathed  her  a  sum  of  money.  The  inferences  were 
either  way.  Lord  Dannisburgh  never  spoke  evilly  of  any  wom- 
an, and  he  was  perhaps  bound  to  indemnify  her  materially  as 
well  as  he  could  for  what  she  had  suffered.  On  the  other 
hand,  how  easy  it  was  to  be  the  dupe  of  a  woman  so  hand- 


176  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

some  and  clever.  Unlikely,  too,  that  his  nncle  would  consent 
to  sit  at  the  Platonic  banquet  with  her.  Judging  by  himself, 
Dacier  deemed  it  possible  for  man.  He  was  not  quick  to  kin- 
dle, and  had  lately  seen  much  of  her,  had  found  her  a  Lady 
Egeria,  helpful  in  counsel,  prompting,  inspiriting,  reviving  as 
well-waters,  and  as  temperately  cool:  not  one  sign  of  native 
slipperiness.  Nor  did  she  stir  the  mud  in  him  upon  which 
proud  man  is  built.  The  shadow  of  the  scandal  had  checked 
a  few  shifty  sensations  rising  now  and  then  of  their  own  ac- 
cord, and  had  laid  them,  with  the  lady's  benign  connivance. 
This  was  good  proof  in  her  favor,  seeing  that  she  must  have 
perceived  of  late  the  besetting  thirst  he  had  for  her  company; 
and  alone  or  in  the  medley  equally.  To  see  her,  hear,  ex- 
change ideas  with  her;  and  to  talk  of  new  books,  try  to  listen 
to  music  at  the  opera  and  at  concerts,  and  admire  her  playing 
of  hostess,  were  novel  pleasures,  giving  him  fresh  notions  of 
life,  and  strengthening  rather  than  disturbing  the  course  of 
his  life's  business. 

At  any  rate,  she  was  capable  of  friendship.  Why  not  reso- 
lutely believe  that  she  had  been  his  uncle's  true  and  simple 
friend!  He  adopted  the  resolution,  thanking  her  for  one 
recognized  fact:  he  hated  marriage,  and  would  by  this  time 
have  been  in  the  yoke  but  for  the  agreeable  deviation  of  his 
path  to  her  society.  Since  his  visit  to  Copsley,  moreover. 
Lady  Dunstane's  idolizing  of  her  friend  had  influenced  him. 
Eeflecting  on  it,  he  recovered  from  the  shock  which  his  uncle's 
request  had  caused. 

Certain  positive  calculations  were  running  side  by  side  with 
the  speculations  in  vapor.  His  messenger  would  reach  her 
house  at  about  four  of  the  afternoon.  If  then  at  home,  would 
she  decide  to  start  immediately?  Would  she  come?  That 
was  a  question  he  did  not  delay  to  answer.  Would  she  defer 
the  visit?    Death  replied  to  that.    She  would  not  delay  it. 

She  would  be  sure  to  come  at  once.  And  what  of  the  wel- 
come she  would  meet?  Leaving  the  station  in  London  at  six 
in  the  evening,  she  might  arrive  at  the  Priory,  all  impedi- 
ments counted,  between  ten  and  eleven  at  night.  Thence, 
coldly  greeted,  or  not  greeted,  to  the  chamber  of  death. 

A  pitiable  and  cruel  reception  for  a  woman  upon  such  a  mis- 
sion! 

His  mingled  calculations  and  meditations  reached  that  ex- 
clamatory terminus  in  feeling,  and  settled  on  the  picture  of 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  177 

Diana,  about  as  clear  as  light  to  blinking  eyes,  but  enough  for 
him  to  realize  her  being  there  and  alone,  woefully  alone.  The 
supposition  of  an  absolute  loneliness  was  most  possible.  He 
had  intended  to  drive  back  the  next  day,  when  the  domestic 
storm  would  be  over,  and  take  the  chances  of  her  coming.  It 
seemed  now  a  piece  of  duty  to  return  at  night,  a  traverse  of 
twenty  rough  up-and-down  miles  from  Itchenford  to  the 
heathland  rolling  on  the  chalk  wave  of  the  Surrey  borders, 
easily  done  after  the  remonstrances  of  his  host  were  stopped. 

Dacier  sat  in  an  open  carriage,  facing  a  slip  of  bright  moon. 
Poetical  impressions,  emotions,  any  stirrings  of  his  mind  by 
the  sensational  stamp  on  it,  were  new  to  him;  and  while  he 
swam  in  them,  both  lulled  and  pricked  by  his  novel  accessi- 
bility to  nature's  lyrical  touch,  he  asked  himself  whether,  if  he 
were  near  the  throes  of  death,  the  thought  of  having  Diana 
Warwick  to  sit  beside  his  vacant  semblance  for  an  hour  at 
midnight  would  be  comforting.  And  why  had  his  uncle  speci- 
fied an  hour  of  the  night?  It  was  a  sentiment,  like  the  re- 
quest: curious  in  a  man  so  little  sentimental.  Yonder  cres- 
cent running  the  shadowy  round  of  the  hoop  roused  compari- 
sons. Would  one  really  wish  to  have  her  beside  one  in  death? 
In  life — ah!  But  suppose  her  denied  to  us  in  life.  Then  the 
desire  for  her  companionship  appears  passingly  comprehensi- 
ble. Enter  into  the  sentiment,  you  see  that  the  hour  of  dark- 
ness is  naturally  chosen.  And  would  even  a  grand  old  Pagan 
crave  the  presence  beside  his  dead  body  for  an  hour  of  the 
night  of  a  woman  he  did  not  esteem?  Dacier  answered  No. 
The  negative  was  not  echoed  in  his  mind.  He  repeated  it,  and 
to  the  same  deadness. 

He  became  aware  that  he  had  spoken  for  himself,  and  he 
had  a  fit  of  sourness.  For  who  can  say  he  is  not  a  fool  before 
he  has  been  tried  by  a  woman?  Dacier's  wretched  tendency 
under  vexation  to  conceive  grotesque  analogies — anti-poetic, 
not  to  say  cockney  similes — which  had  slightly  chilled  Diana 
at  Rovio,  set  him  looking  at  yonder  crescent  with  the  hoop,  as 
at  the  shape  of  a  white  cat  climbing  a  wheel.  Men  of  the 
northern  blood  will  sometimes  lend  their  assent  to  poetical 
images;  even  to  those  that  do  not  stun  the  mind  like  bludg- 
eons, and  imperatively,  by  much  repetition,  command  their 
assent;  and  it  is  for  a  solid  exchange  and  interest  in  usury 
with  soft  poetical  creatures  when  they  are  so  condescending; 
but  they  are  seized  by  the  grotesque.    In  spite  of  efforts  to 

12 


178  DIANA   OF  THE    CROSSWAYS. 

efface  or  supplant  it  he  saw  the  white  cat,  nothing  else,  even 
to  thinking  that  she  had  jumped  cleverly  to  catch  the  wheel. 
He  was  a  true  descendant  of  practical  hard-grained  fighting 
Northerners,  of  gnarled  dwarf  imaginations,  chivalrous  though 
they  were,  and  heroes  to  have  serviceable  and  valiant  gentle- 
men for  issue.  Without  at  all  tracing  back  to  its  origin  his 
destestable  image  of  the  white  cat  on  the  dead  circle,  he  kicked 
at  the  links  between  his  uncle  and  Diana  Warwick,  whatever 
they  had  been;  particularly  at  the  present  revival  of  them. 
Old  Lady  Dacier's  blunt  speech,  and  his  father's  fixed  opin- 
ion, hissed  in  his  head. 

They  were  ignorant  of  his  autumnal  visit  to  the  Italian 
Lakes  after  the  winter's  Mle-boat  expedition;  and  also  of  the 
degree  of  his  recent  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Warwick;  or  else,  as 
he  knew,  he  would  have  heard  more  hissing  things.  Her  pat- 
ronage of  Miss  Paynham  exposed  her  to  attacks  where  she 
was  deemed  vulnerable;  Lady  Dacier  muttered  old  saws  as  to 
the  flocking  of  birds.  He  did  not  accurately  understand  it: 
thought  it  indiscreet  at  best.  But,  in  regard  to  his  experience, 
he  could  tell  himself  that  a  woman  more  guileless  of  luring 
never  drew  breath.  On  the  contrary,  candor  said  it  had  al- 
ways been  he  who  had  schemed  and  pressed  for  the  meeting. 
He  was  at  liberty  to  do  it,  not  being  bound  in  honor  else- 
where. Besides,  despite  his  acknowledgment  of  her  beauty, 
Mrs.  Warwick  was  not  quite  his  ideal  of  the  perfectly  beautiful 
woman.  Constance  Asper  came  nearer  to  it.  He  had  the  Eng- 
lish taste  for  red  and  white,  and  for  cold  outlines;  he  secretly 
admired  a  statuesque  demeanor  with  a  statue's  eyes.  The 
national  approbation  of  a  reserved  haughtiness  in  woman,  a 
tempered  disdain  in  her  slightly  lifted  small  upperlip  and 
drooped  eyelids,  was  shared  by  him;  and  Constance  Asper,  if 
not  exactly  aristocratic  by  birth,  stood  well  for  that  aristo- 
cratic insular  type  which  seems  to  promise  the  husband  of  it 
a  casket  of  all  the  trusty  virtues,  as  well  as  the  security  of 
frigidity  in  the  casket.  Such  was  Dacier's  native  taste;  con- 
sequently the  attractions  of  Diana  Warwick  for  him  were,  he 
thought,  chiefly  mental — those  of  a  Lady  Egeria.  She  might 
or  might  not  be  good,  in  the  vulgar  sense.  She  was  an  agree- 
able woman,  an  amusing  companion,  very  suggestive,  inciting, 
animating;  and  her  past  history  must  be  left  as  her  own.  Did 
it  matter  to  him?  What  he  saw  was  bright:  a  silver  crescent 
on  the  side  of  the  shadowy  ring.    Were  it  a  question  of  marry- 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  179 

ing  her!  That  was  out  of  the  possibilities.  He  remembered, 
moreover,  having  heard  from  Quintin  Manx,  who  professed 
to  know,  that  Mrs.  Warwick  had  started  in  married  Hfe  by 
treating  her  husband  cavaherly  to  an  intolerable  degree,  "such 
as  no  Englishman  could  stand,"  the  portly  old  shipowner 
thundered,  describing  it  and  her  in  racy  vernacular.  She 
might  be  a  devil  of  a  wife.  She  was  a  pleasant  friend;  just 
the  soft  bit  sweeter  than  male  friends,  which  gave  the  flavor 
of  sex  without  the  artful  seductions.  He  required  them  strong 
to  move  him. 

He  looked  at  last  on  the  green  walls  of  the  Priory,  scarce- 
ly supposing  a  fair  watcher  to  be  within;  for  the  contrasting 
pale  colors  of  dawn  had  ceased  to  quicken  the  brilliancy  of  the 
crescent,  and  summer  daylight  drowned  it  to  fainter  than  a 
silver  coin  in  water.  It  lay  dispieced  like  a  pulled  rag.  East- 
ward, over  Surrey,  stood  the  full  rose  of  morning.  The  Priory 
clock  struck  four.  When  the  summons  of  the  bell  had  gained 
him  admittance,  and  he  heard  that  Mrs.  Warwick  had  come 
in  the  night,  he  looked  back  through  the  doorway  at  the  rosy 
color,  and  congratulated  himself  to  think  that  her  hour  of 
watching  was  at  an  end.  A  sleepy  footman  was  his  inform- 
ant. Women  were  in  my  lord's  dressing-room,  he  said.  Up- 
stairs, at  the  death-chamber,  Dacier  paused.  No  sound  came 
to  him.  He  hurried  to  his  own  room,  paced  about,  and  re- 
turned. Expecting  to  see  no  one  but  the  dead  he  turned  the 
handle,  and  the  two  circles  of  a  shaded  lamp,  on  ceiling  and 
on  table,  met  his  gaze. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
DIANIA'S  NIGHT-WATCH  IN  THE  CHAMBER  OF  DEATH. 

He  stepped  into  the  room,  and  thrilled  to  hear  the  quiet 
voice  beside  the  bed:    "Who  is  it?" 

Apologies  and  excuses  were  on  his  tongue.  The  vibration 
of  those  grave  tones  checked  them. 

"It  is  you,"  she  said. 

She  sat  in  shadow,  her  hands  joined  on  her  lap.  An  un- 
opened book  was  under  the  lamp. 

He  spoke  in  an  underbreath:  "I  have  just  come.  I  was 
not  sure  I  should  find  you  here.    Pardon." 

"There  is  a  chair." 


180  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

He  murmured  thanks  and  entered  into  the  stillness,  observ- 
ing her. 

"You  have  been  watching.     .     .     You  must  be  tired." 

"No." 

"An  hour  was  asked;  only  one." 

"I  could  not  leave  him." 

"Watchers  are  at  hand  to  relieve  you." 

"It  is  better  for  him  to  have  me." 

The  chord  of  her  voice  told  him  of  the  gulfs  she  had  sunk 
in  during  the  night.  The  thought  of  her  endurance  became 
a  burden. 

He  let  fall  his  breath  for  patience,  and  tapped  the  floor 
with  his  foot. 

He  feared  to  discompose  her  by  speaking.  The  silence  grew 
more  fearful,  as  the  very  speech  of  death  between  them. 

"You  came.  I  thought  it  right  to  let  you  know  instantly.  I 
hoped  you  would  come  to-morrow." 

"I  could  not  delay." 

"You  have  been  sitting  alone  here  since  eleven." 

"I  have  not  found  it  long." 

"You  must  want  some  refreshment     .     .     tea?" 

"I  need  nothing." 

"It  can  be  made  ready  in  a  few  minutes." 

"I  could  not  eat  or  drink." 

He  tried  to  brush  away  the  impression  of  the  tomb  in  the 
heavily-curtained  chamber  by  thinking  of  the  summer  morn 
outside;  he  spoke  of  it,  the  rosy  sky,  the  dewy  grass,  the  piping 
birds.    She  listened,  as  one  hearing  of  a  quitted  sphere. 

Their  breathing  in  common  was  just  heard  if  either  drew  a 
deeper  breath.  At  moments  his  eyes  wandered  and  shut.  Al- 
ternately in  his  mind  Death  had  vaster  meanings  and  doubt- 
fuller;  Life  cowered  under  the  shadow  or  outshone  it.  He 
glanced  from  her  to  the  figure  in  the  bed,  and  she  seemed 
swallowed. 

He  said :  "It  is  time  for  you  to  have  rest.  You  know  your 
room.    I  will  stay  till  the  servants  are  up." 

She  replied:    "No,  let  this  night  with  him  be  mine." 

"I  am  not  intruding?     .     .     .     ." 

"If  you  wish  to  remain.     .     .     ." 

No  traces  of  weeping  were  on  her  face.  The  lamp-shade 
revealed  it  colorless,  and  lusterless  her  eyes.  She  was  robed 
in  black.    She  held  her  hands  clasped. 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  181 

*^You  have  not  suffered?" 

"Oh,  no." 

She  said  it  without  sighing:  nor  was  her  speech  mournful, 
only  brief. 

"You  have  seen  death  before?" 

"I  sat  by  my  father  four  nights.  I  was  a  girl  then.  I  cried 
till  I  had  no  more  tears." 

He  felt  a  burning  pressure  behind  his  eyeballs. 

"Death  is  natural,"  he  said. 

"It  is  natural  to  the  aged.  When  they  die  honored  .  . 
.  ."  She  looked  where  the  dead  man  lay.  "To  sit  beside 
the  young,  cut  off  from  their  dear  opening  life!  ..."  A 
little  shudder  swept  over  her.    "Oh!  that!" 

"You  were  very  good  to  come.  We  must  all  thank  you  for 
fulfilling  his  wish." 

"He  knew  it  would  be  my  wish." 

Her  hands  pressed  together. 

"He  lies  peacefully!" 

"I  have  raised  the  lamp  on  him,  and  wondered  each  time. 
So  changeless  he  lies.  But  so  like  a  sleep  that  will  wake. 
We  never  see  peace  but  in  the  features  of  the  dead.  Will  you 
look?    They  are  beautiful.    They  have  a  heavenly  sweetness." 

The  desire  to  look  was  evidently  recurrent  with  her.  Da- 
cier  rose. 

Their  eyes  fell  together  on  the  dead  man,  as  thoughtfully 
as  death  allows  to  the  creatures  of  sensation. 

"And  after?"  he  said  in  low  tones. 

"I  trust  to  my  Maker,"  she  replied.  "Do  you  see  a  change 
since  he  breathed  his  last?" 

"Kot  any." 

"You  were  with  him?" 

"Not  in  the  room.    Two  minutes  later." 

"Who?     .     .     ." 

"My  father.    His  niece.  Lady  Cathairn." 

"If  our  lives  are  lengthened  we  outlive  most  of  those  we 
would  have  to  close  our  eyes.    He  had  a  dear  sister." 

"She  died  some  years  back." 

"I  helped  to  comfort  him  for  that  loss." 

"He  told  me  you  did." 

The  lamp  was  replaced  on  the  table. 

"For  a  moment,  when  I  withdraw  the  light  from  him,  I 


182  DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

feel  sadness.  As  if  the  light  we  lend  to  anything  were  of  value 
to  him  now!'^ 

She  bowed  h-er  head  deeply.  Daeier  left  her  meditation  un- 
disturbed. The  birds  on  the  walls  outside  were  audible,  tweet- 
ing, chirping. 

He  went  to  the  window-curtains  and  tried  the  shutter-bars. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  daylight  would  be  cheerfuller  for  her. 
He  had  a  thirst  to  behold  her  standing  bathed  in  daylight. 

"Shall  I  open  them?"  he  asked  her. 

"I  would  rather  rhe  lamp/'  she  said. 

They  sat  silently  until  she  drew  her  watch  from  her  girdle. 
"My  train  starts  at  half-past  six.  It  is  a  walk  of  thirty-five 
minutes  to  the  station.    I  did  it  last  night  in  that  time.'' 

"You  walked  here  in  the  dark  alone?" 

"There  was  no  fly  to  be  had.  The  station-master  sent  one 
of  his  porters  with  me.  We  had  a  talk  on  the  road.  I  like 
those  men." 

Daeier  read  the  hour  by  the  mantel-piece  clock.  "If  you 
must  really  go  by  the  early  train  I  will  drive  you." 

"No,  I  will  walk;  I  prefer  it." 

"I  will  order  your  breakfast  at  once." 

He  turned  on  his  heel.  She  stopped  him.  "No,  I  have  no 
taste  for  eating  or  drinking." 

"Pray    .     .     ."  said  he,  in  visible  distress. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  could  not.  I  have  twenty  minutes 
longer.  I  can  find  my  way  to  the  station;  it  is  almost  a 
straight  road  out  of  the  park-gates." 

His  heart  swelled  with  anger  at  the  household  for  the  treat- 
ment she  had  been  subjected  to,  judging  by  her  resolve  not  to 
break  bread  in  the  house. 

They  resumed  their  silent  sitting.  The  intervals  for  a  word 
to  pass  between  them  were  long,  and  the  ticking  of  the  time- 
piece fronting  the  deathbed  ruled  the  chamber,  scarcely 
varied. 

The  lamp  was  raised  for  the  final  look,  the  leave-taking. 

Daeier  buried  his  face,  thinking  many  things — the  common 
multitude  in  insurrection. 

"A  servant  should  be  told  to  come  now,"  she  said.  "I  have 
only  to  put  on  my  bonnet  and  I  am  ready." 

"You  will  take  no    .     .     ?" 

"Nothing." 

"It  is  not  too  late  for  a  carriage  to  be  ordered." 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  183 

«Ko— the  walk!" 

They  separated. 

He  roused  the  two  women  in  the  dressing-room,  asleep  with 
heads  against  the  wall.  Thence  he  sped  to  his  own  room  for 
hat  and  overcoat,  and  a  sprinkle  of  cold  water.  Descending 
the  stairs  he  beheld  his  companion  issuing  from  the  chamber 
of  death.    Her  lips  were  shut,  her  eyelids  nervously  tremulous. 

They  were  soon  in  the  warm  sweet  open  air,  and  they 
walked  without  an  interchange  of  a  syllable  through  the  park 
into  the  white  hawthorn  lane,  glad  to  breathe.  Her  nostrils 
took  long  draughts  of  air,  but  of  the  change  of  scene  she  ap- 
peared scarcely  sensible. 

At  the  park-gates  she  said:  "There  is  no  necessity  for  your 
coming." 

His  answer  was:  "I  think  of  myself.  I  gain  something 
every  step  I  walk  with  you." 

"To-day  is  Thursday,"  said  she.    "The  funeral  is     .     .     ?" 

"Monday  has  been  fixed.  According  to  his  directions  he 
will  lie  in  the  churchyard  of  his  village — not  in  the  family 
vault." 

"I  know,"  she  said,  hastily.  "They  are  privileged  who  fol- 
low him  and  see  the  coffin  lowered.  He  spoke  of  this  quiet  lit- 
tle resting-place." 

"Yes,  it's  a  good  end.  I  do  not  wonder  at  his  wish  for  the 
honor  you  have  done  him.  I  could  wish  it  too.  But  more 
living  than  dead — that  is  a  natural  wish." 

"It  is  not  to  be  called  an  honor." 

"I  should  feel  it  so — an  honor  to  me." 

"It  is  a  friend's  duty.  The  word  is  too  harsh.  It  was 
his  friend's  desire.  He  did  not  ask  it  so  much  as  he  sanc- 
tioned it.    For  to  him  what  has  my  sitting  beside  him  been?" 

"He  had  the  prospective  happiness." 

"He  knew  well  that  my  soul  would  be  with  him — as  it  was 
last  night.  But  he  knew  it  would  be  my  poor  human  happi- 
ness to  see  him  with  my  eyes,  touch  him  with  my  hand,  be- 
fore he  passed  from  our  sight." 

Dacier  exclaimed:     "How  you  can  love!" 

"Is  the  village  church  to  be  seen?"  she  asked. 

"To  the  right  of  those  elms;  that  is  the  spire.  The  black 
spot  below  is  a  yew.  You  love  with  the  whole  heart  when  you 
love." 

"I  love  my  friends,"  she  replied. 


< 


184  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"You  tempt  me  to  envy  those  who  are  numbered  among 
them." 

"They  are  not  many." 

"They  should  be  grateful." 

"You  have  some  acquaintance  with  them  all." 

"And  an  enemy?  Had  you  ever  one?  Do  you  know  of 
one?" 

"Direct  and  personal  designedly?  I  think  not.  We  give 
that  title  to  those  who  are  disinclined  to  us  and  add  a  dash 
of  darker  color  to  our  errors.  Foxes  have  enemies  in  the  dogs; 
heroines  of  melodramas  have  their  persecuting  villains.  I 
suppose  that  conditions  of  life  exist  where  one  meets  the 
original  complexities.  The  bad  are  in  every  rank.  The  in- 
veterately  malignant  I  have  not  found.  Circumstances  may 
combine  to  make  a  whisper  as  deadly  as  a  blow,  though  not  of 
such  evil  design.  Perhaps  if  we  lived  at  a  court  of  a  mag- 
nificent despot  we  should  learn  that  we  are  less  highly  civilized 
than  we  imagine  ourselves;  but  that  is  a  fire  to  the  passions, 
and  the  extreme  is  not  the  perfect  test.  Our  civilization 
counts  positive  gains — unless  you  take  the  melodrama  for 
the  truer  picture  of  us.  It  is  always  the  most  popular  with 
the  English.  And  look,  what  a  month  June  is.  Yesterday 
morning  I  was  with  Lady  Dunstane  on  her  heights,  and  I  feel 
double  the  age.  He  was  fond  of  this  wild  country.  We  think 
it  a  desert — a  blank,  whither  he  has  gone,  because  we  will 
strain  to  see  in  the  utter  dark,  and  nothing  can  come  of  that 
but  the  bursting  of  the  eyeballs." 

Dacier  assented:  "There's  no  use  in  peering  beyond  the 
limits." 

"No,"  said  she;  "the  effect  is  like  the  explaining  of  things 
to  a  dull  head — the  finishing  stroke  to  the  understanding! 
Better  continue  to  brood.  We  get  to  some  unravelment  if 
we  are  left  to  our  own  efforts.  I  quarrel  with  no  priest  of 
any  denomination.  That  they  should  quarrel  among  them- 
selves is  comprehensible  in  their  wisdom,  for  each  has  the 
specific.  But  they  show  us  their  way  of  solving  the  great  prob- 
lem, and  we  ought  to  thank  them,  though  one  or  the  other 
abominate  us.  You  are  advised  to  talk  with  Lady  Dunstane 
on  these  themes.  She  is  perpetually  in  the  ante-chamber 
of  death,  and  her  soul  is  perennially  sunshine.  See  the  pretty 
cottage  under  the  laburnum  curls!  Who  lives  there?" 
"His  gamekeeper,  Simon  Rofe." 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  185 

"And  what  a  playground  for  the  children,  that  bit  of 
common  by  their  garden-palings!  And  the  pond,  and  the 
blue  hills  over  the  furzes.  I  hope  those  people  will  not  be 
turned  ouV 

Dacier  could  not  tell.    He  promised  to  do  his  best  for  them. 

"But/'  said  she,  "you  are  the  lord  here  now." 

"Not  likely  to  be  the  tenant.  Incomes  are  wanted  to  sup- 
port even  small  estates." 

"The  reason  is  good  for  courting  the  income." 

He  disliked  the  remark;  and  when  she  said  presently, 
"Those  windmills  make  the  landscape  homely,"  he  rejoined, 
"They  remind  one  of  our  wheeling  London  gamins  round  the 
cab  from  the  station." 

"They  remind  you,"  said  she,  and  smiled  at  the  chance  dis- 
cordant trick  he  had,  remembering  occasions  when  it  had 
crossed  her. 

"This  is  homelier  than  Kovio,"  she  said;  "quite  as  nice  in 
its  way." 

"You  do  not  gather  flowers  here." 

"Because  my  friend  has  these  at  her  feet." 

"May  one  petition  without  a  rival,  then,  for  a  souvenir?" 

"Certainly,  if  yoa  care  to  have  a  common  buttercup." 

They  reached  the  station  five  minutes  in  advance  of  the 
train.  His  coming  manoeuvre  was  early  detected,  and  she 
drew  from  her  pocket  the  little  book  he  had  seen  lying  un- 
opened on  the  table  and  said,  "I  shall  have  two  good  hours 
for  reading." 

"You  will  not  object?  ...  I  must  accompany  you  to 
town.    Permit  it,  I  beg.    You  shall  not  be  worried  to  talk." 

"No;  I  came  alone,  and  return  alone." 

"Fasting  and  unprotected!  Are  you  determined  to  take 
away  the  worst  impression  of  us?  Do  not  refuse  me  this 
favor." 

"As  to  fasting,  I  could  not  eat:  and  unprotected  no  woman 
is  in  England  if  she  is  a  third-class  traveler.  That  is  my  ex- 
perience of  the  class;  and  I  shall  return  among  my  natural 
protectors — the  most  unselfishly  chivalrous  to  women  in  the 
whole  world." 

He  had  set  his  heart  on  going  with  her,  and  he  attempted 
eloquence  in  pleading,  but  that  exposed  him  to  her  humor.  He 
was  tripped. 

"It  is  not  denied  that  you  belong  to  the  knightly  class," 


186  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

she  said;  ^^and  it  is  not  necessary  that  you  should  wear  armor 
and  plumes  to  proclaim  it:  and  your  appearance  would  be  am- 
ple protection  from  the  drunken  sailors  traveling,  you  say,  on 
this  line;  and  I  may  be  deplorably  mistaken  in  imagining  that 
I  could  tame  them.  But  your  knightliness  is  due  elsewhere, 
and  I  commit  myself  to  the  fortune  of  war.  It  is  a  battle  for 
women  everywhere;  under  the  most  favorable  conditions 
among  my  dear  common  English.  I  have  not  my  maid  with 
me,  or  else  I  should  not  dare." 

She  paid  for  a  third-class  ticket,  amused  by  Dacier's  look 
of  entreaty  and  trouble. 

"Of  course  I  obey,"  he  murmured. 

"I  have  the  habit  of  exacting  it  in  matters  concerning  my 
independence,"  she  said;  and  it  arrested  some  rumbling  no- 
tions in  his  head  as  to  a  piece  of  audacity  on  the  starting  of 
the  train.  They  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  till  the 
bell  rang  and  the  train  came  rounding  beneath  an  arch. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  may  I  ask?" — he  said:  "was  it  your  ar- 
ticle in  Whitmonby's  Journal  on  a  speech  of  mine  last  week?" 

"The  guilty  writer  is  confessed." 

"Let  me  thank  you." 

"Don't.  But  try  to  believe  it  written  on  public  grounds 
— ^if  the  task  is  not  too  great." 

"I  may  call?" 

"You  will  be  welcome." 

"To  tell  you  of  the  funeral— the  last  of  him!" 

"Do  not  fail  to  come." 

She  could  have  laughed  to  see  him  jumping  on  the  steps 
of  the  third-class  carriages  one  after  another  to  choose  her 
company  for  her.  In  those  pre-democratic  blissful  days  be- 
fore the  miry  Deluge  the  opinion  of  the  requirements  of  poor 
English  travelers  entertained  by  the  seigneur  directors  of  the 
class  above  them  was  that  they  differed  from  cattle  in  stipu- 
lating for  seats.  With  the  exception  of  that  provision  to  suit 
their  weakness,  the  accommodation  extended  to  them  re- 
sembled pens,  and  the  seats  were  emphatically  seats  of  peni- 
tence, intended  to  grind  the  sitter  for  his  mean  pittance  pay- 
ment and  absence  of  aspiration  to  a  higher  state.  Hard  angu- 
lar wood,  a  low  roof,  a  shabby  square  window  aloof,  demand- 
ing of  him  to  quit  the  seat  he  insisted  on  having,  if  he  would 
indulge  in  views  of  the  passing  scenery, — such  was  the  fur- 
niture of  dens  where  a  refinement  of  castigation  was  prac- 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  187 

ticed  on  villain  poverty  by  denying  leathers  to  the  windows, 
or  else  buttons  to  the  leathers,  so  that  the  windows  had  either 
to  be  up  or  down,  but  refused  to  shelter  and  freshen  simul- 
taneously. 

Dacier  selected  a  compartment  occupied  by  two  old  wom- 
en, a  mother  and  babe  and  little  maid,  and  a  laboring  man. 
There  he  installed  her,  with  an  eager  look  that  she  would 
not  notice. 

"You  will  want  the  window  down,"  he  said. 

She  applied  to  her  fellow-travelers  for  the  permission;  and, 
struggling  to  get  the  window  down,  he  was  irritated  to  animad- 
vert on  "these  carriages"  of  the  benevolent  railway  company. 

"Do  not  forget  that  the  wealthy  are  well  treated,  or  you 
may  be  unjust,"  said  she,  to  pacify  him. 

His  mouth  sharpened  its  line  while  he  tried  arts  and  ener- 
gies on  the  refractory  window.  She  told  him  to  leave  it. 
"You  can't  breathe  this  atmosphere!"  he  cried,  and  called  a 
porter,  who  did  the  work,  remarking  that  it  was  rather  stiff. 

The  door  was  banged  and  fastened.  Dacier  had  to  hang 
on  the  step  to  see  her  in  the  farewell.  From  the  platform  he 
saw  the  top  of  her  bonnet;  and  why  she  should  have  been 
guilty  of  this  freak  of  riding  in  an  unwholesome  carriage  task- 
ed his  power  of  guessing.  He  was  too  English  even  to  have 
taken  the  explanation,  for  he  detested  the  distinguishing  of 
the  races  in  his  country,  and  could  not  therefore  have  com- 
prehended her  peculiar  tenacity  of  the  sense  of  injury  as  long 
as  enthusiasm  did  not  arise  to  obliterate  it.  He  required  a 
course  of  lessons  in  Irish. 

Sauntering  down  the  lane  he  called  at  Simon  Eofe's  cot- 
tage, and  spoke  very  kindly  to  the  gamekeeper's  wife.  That 
might  please  Diana.    It  was  all  he  could  do  at  present. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

*THE  YOUNG  MINISTER  OF  STATE." 

Descriptions  in  the  newspapers  of  the  rural  funeral  of  Lord 
Dannisburgh  had  the  effect  of  rousing  flights  of  tattlers  with 
a  twittering  of  the  disused  name  of  Warwick;  our  social  gods 
renewed  their  combat,  and  the  verdict  of  the  jury  was  again 


188  DIANA    OF   THE    CR09SWAYS. 

overhauled,  to  be  attacked  and  maintained,  the  carpers  reply- 
ing to  the  champions  that  they  held  to  their  view  of  it:  as 
heads  of  bull-dogs  are  expected  to  do  when  they  have  got  a 
grip  of  one.  It  is  a  point  of  muscular  honor  with  them  never 
to  relax  their  hold.  They  will  tell  you  why — they  formed 
that  opinion  from  the  first.  And  but  for  the  swearing  of  a 
particular  witness,  upon  whom  the  plaintiff  had  been  taught 
to  rely,  the  verdict  would  have  been  different — to  prove  their 
soundness  of  judgment.  They  could  speak  from  private  posi- 
tive information  of  certain  damnatory  circumstances,  derived 
from  authentic  sources.  Visits  of  a  gentleman  to  the  house 
of  a  married  lady  in  the  absence  of  the  husband?  Oh!  The 
British  Lucretia  was  very  properly  not  legally  at  home  to  the 
masculine  world  of  that  day.  She  plied  her  distaff  in  pure 
seclusion,  meditating  on  her  absent  lord;  or  else  a  fair  pro- 
portion of  the  masculine  world,  which  had  not  yet,  has  not 
yet,  ^'doubled  Cape  Turk,"  approved  her  condemnation  to  the 
sack. 

There  was  talk  in  the  feminine  world — at  Lady  Wathin's 
assemblies.  The  elevation  of  her  husband  had  extended  and 
deepened  her  influence  on  the  levels  where  it  reigned  before, 
but  without,  strange  as  we  may  think  it  now,  assisting  to  her 
own  elevation,  much  aspired  for,  to  the  smooth  and  lively 
upper  pavement  of  Society,  above  its  tumbled  strata.  She 
was  near  that  distinguished  surface,  not  on  it.  Her  circle  was 
practically  the  same  as  it  was  previous  to  the  coveted  nominal 
rank  enabling  her  to  trample  on  those  beneath  it.  And  wom- 
en like  that  Mrs.  Warwick,  a  woman  of  no  birth,  no  money, 
not  even  honest  character,  enjoyed  the  entry"  undisputed,  cir- 
culated among  the  highest — because  people  took  her  rattle  for 
wit! — and  because  also  our  nobility.  Lady  Wathin  feared,  had 
no  due  regard  for  morality.  Our  aristocracy,  brilliant  and 
ancient  though  it  was,  merited  rebuke.  She  grew  severe  upon 
aristocratic  scandals,  whereof  were  plenty  among  the  frolic- 
some host  just  overhead,  as  vexatious  as  the  drawing-room 
party  to  the  lodger  in  the  floor  below,  who  has  not  received 
an  invitation  to  partake  of  the  festivities,  and  is  required  to 
digest  the  noise.  But,  if  ambition  is  over-sensitive,  moral  in- 
dignation is  ever  consolatory,  for  it  plants  us  on  the  Judg- 
ment Seat.  There  indeed  we  may,  sitting  with  the  very  High- 
est, forget  our  personal  disappointments  in  dispensing  repro- 
bation for  misconduct,  however  eminent  the  offenders. 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  189 

She  was  Lady  Wathin,  and  once  on  an  afternoon's  call  to 
see  her  poor  Lady  Dunstane  at  her  town-house  she  had  been 
introduced  to  Lady  Pennon,  a  patroness  of  Mrs.  Warwick,  and 
had  met  a  snub — an  icy  check-bow  of  the  aristocratic  head 
from  the  top  of  the  spinal  column,  and  not  a  word,  not  a  look; 
the  half -turn  of  a  head  devoid  of  mouth  and  eyes!  She  prac- 
ticed that  forbidding  check-bow  herself  to  perfection,  so  the 
endurance  of  it  was  horrible.  A  7ioli  me  tangere,  her  husband 
termed  it,  in  his  ridiculous  equanimity;  and  he  might  term 
it  what  he  pleased — it  was  insulting.  The  solace  she  had  was 
in  hearing  that  hideous  Eadical  Revolutionary  things  were 
openly  spoken  at  Mrs.  Warwick's  evenings  with  her  friends — 
impudently  named  "the  elect  of  London."  Pleasing  to  re- 
flect upon  Mrs.  Warwick  as  undermining  her  supporters,  to 
bring  them  some  day  down  with  a  crash!  Her  "elect  of  Lon- 
don" were  a  queer  gathering  by  report  of  them!  And  Mr. 
Whitmonby,  too,  no  doubt  a  celebrity,  was  the  right-hand 
man  at  these  dinner-parties  of  Mrs.  Warwick.  Where  will  not 
men  go  to  be  flattered  by  a  pretty  woman!  He  had  declined 
repeated,  successive  invitations  to  Lady  Wathin's  table.  But 
there,  of  course,  he  would  not  have  had  "the  freedom":  that 
is,  she  rejoiced  in  thinking,  defensively  and  offensively,  a 
moral  wall  inclosed  her  topics.  The  Hon.  Percy  Dacier  had 
been  brought  to  her  Thursday  afternoon  by  Mr.  Quintin 
Manx,  and  he  had  one  day  dined  with  her;  and  he  knew  Mrs. 
Warwick — a  little,  he  said.  The  opportunity  was  not  lost  to 
convey  to  him,  entirely  in  the  interest  of  sweet  Constance  As- 
per,  that  the  moral  world  entertained  a  settled  view  of  the 
very  clever  woman  ^Irs.  Warwick  certainly  was.  He  had 
asked  Diana,  on  their  morning  walk  to  the  station,  whether 
she  had  an  enemy:  so  prone  are  men,  educated  by  the  drama 
and  fiction  in  the  belief  that  the  garden  of  civilized  life  must 
be  at  the  mercy  of  the  old  wild  devourers,  to  fancy  "villain 
whispers"  an  indication  of  direct  animosity.  Lady  Wathin 
had  no  sentiment  of  the  kind. 

But  she  had  become  acquainted  with  the  other  side  of  the 
famous  Dannisburgh  case — the  unfortunate  plaintiff;  and 
compassion  as  well  as  morality  moved  her  to  put  on  a  speaking 
air  when  Mrs.  Warwick's  name  was  mentioned.  She  pictured 
him  to  the  ladies  of  her  circle  as  "one  of  our  true  gentlemen 
in  his  deportment  and  his  feelings."  He  was,  she  would  ven- 
ture to  say,  her  ideal  of  an  English  gentleman.    "But  now," 


l&O  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

she  added  commiseratingly,  "ruined;  ruined  in  his  health 
and  in  his  prospects/'  A  lady  inquired  if  it  was  the  verdict 
that  had  thus  affected  him.  Lady  Wathin's  answer  was  re- 
ported over  moral,  or  suhstratum,  London:  "He  is  the  vic- 
tim of  a  fatal  passion  for  his  wife,  and  would  take  her  back 
to-morrow  were  she  to  solicit  his  forgiveness."  Morality  had 
something  to  say  against  this  active  marital  charity,  attrib- 
utable, it  was  to  be  feared,  to  weakness  of  character  on  the 
part  of  the  husband.  Still  Mrs.  Warwick  undoubtedly  was 
one  of  those  women  (of  Satanic  construction)  who  have  the 
art  of  enslaving  the  men  unhappy  enough  to  cross  their  path. 
The  nature  of  the  art  was  hinted,  with  the  delicacy  of  dainty 
feet  which  have  to  tread  in  mire  to  get  to  safety.  Men,  alas! 
are  snared  in  this  way.  Instances  too  numerous  for  the  good 
repute  of  the  swinish  sex  were  cited,  and  the  question  of  how 
Morality  was  defensible  from  their  grossness  passed  without 
a  tactical  reply.  There  is  no  defense.  Those  women  come 
like  the  cholera  morbus,  and  owing  to  similar  causes.  They 
will  prevail  until  the  ideas  of  men  regarding  women  are  puri- 
fied. Nevertheless  the  husband  who  could  forgive,  even  pro- 
pose to  forgive,  was  deemed  by  consent  generous,  however 
weak.  Though  she  might  not  have  been  wholly  guilty  she 
had  bitterly  offended.  And  he  despatched  an  emissary  to  her? 
The  theme,  one  may,  in  their  language,  "fear,"  was  relished  as 
a  sugared  acid.  It  was  renewed  in  the  late  autumn  of  the 
year,  when  Antonia  published  her  new  book,  entitled  The 
Young  Minister  of  State.  The  signature  of  the  authoress 
was  now  known;  and,  from  this  resurgence  of  her  name  in 
public,  suddenly  a  radiation  of  tongues  from  the  circle  of  Lady 
Wathin  declared  that  the  repentant  Mrs.  Warwick  had  gone 
back  to  her  husband's  bosom  and  forgiveness!  The  rumor 
spread  in  spite  of  sturdy  denials  at  odd  corners,  counting  the 
red-hot  proposal  of  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  to  eat  his  head  and 
boots  for  breakfast  if  it  was  proved  correct.  It  filled  a  yawn 
of  the  clubs  for  the  afternoon.  Soon  this  wanton  rumor  was 
met  and  stifled  by  another  of  more  morbific  density,  heavily 
charged  as  that  which  led  the  sad  Eliza  to  her  pyre. 

Antonia's  hero  was  easily  identified.  The  Young  Minister 
of  State  could  be  he  only  who  was  now  at  all  her  parties, 
always  meeting  her;  had  been  spied  walking  with  her  daily 
in  the  Park  near  her  house,  on  his  march  down  to  Westmins- 
ter during  the  session;   and  who  positively  went  to  concerts 


DIANA    OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  191 

and  sat  under  fiddlers  to  be  near  her.  It  accounted  moreover 
for  his  treatment  of  Constance  Asper.  What  effrontery  of  the 
authoress,  to  placard  herself  with  him  in  a  book!  The  like- 
ness of  the  hero  to  Percy  Dacier  once  established  became  strik- 
ing to  glaringness:  a  proof  of  her  ability,  and  more  of  her 
audacity;  still  more  of  her  intention  to  flatter  him  up  to  his 
perdition.  By  the  things  written  of  him,  one  would  imagine 
the  conversations  going  on  behind  the  scenes.  She  had  the 
wiles  of  a  Cleopatra,  not  without  some  of  the  Mlene's  experi- 
ences. A  youthful  Antony,  Dacier  would  be  little  likely  to 
escape  her  toils.  And  so  promising  a  young  man!  The  sigh, 
the  tear  for  weeping  over  his  destruction,  almost  fell,  such 
vivid  realizing  of  the  prophesy  appeared  in  its  pathetic  pro- 
nouncement. 

This  low  rumor,  or  malaria,  began  blowing  in  the  winter, 
and  did  not  travel  fast;  for,  strangely,  there  was  hardly  a 
breath  of  it  in  the  atmosphere  of  Dacier,  none  in  Diana's.  It 
rose  from  groups  not  so  rapidly  and  largely  mixing,  and  less 
quick  to  kindle;  whose  crazy  sincereness  battened  on  the 
smallest  morsel  of  fact  and  collected  the  fictitious  by  slow 
absorption.  But,  as  guardians  of  morality,  often  doing  good 
duty  in  their  office,  they  are  persistent.  When  Parliament 
assembled,  Mr.  Quintin  Manx,  a  punctual  member  of  the 
House,  if  nothing  else,  arrived  in  town.  He  was  invited  to 
dine  with  Lady  Wathin.  After  dinner  she  spoke  to  him  of 
the  absent  Constance,  and  heard  of  her  being  well,  and  ex- 
pressed a  great  rejoicing  at  that.  Whereupon  the  burly  old 
shipowner  frowned  and  puffed.  Constance,  he  said,  had 
plunged  into  these  new  spangle,  candle  and  high  singing  serv- 
ices; was  all  for  symbols,  harps,  effigies,  what  not.  Lady 
Wathin's  countenance  froze  in  hearing  of  it.  She  led  Mr. 
Quintin  to  a  wall-sofa,  and  said:  "Surely  the  dear  child  must 
have  had  a  disappointment  for  her  to  have  taken  to  those  fool- 
ish displays  of  religion!    It  is  generally  a  sign." 

"Well,  ma'am — my  lady — I  let  girls  go  their  ways  in  such 
things.  I  don't  interfere.  But  it's  that  fellow,  or  nobody, 
with  her.  She  has  fixed  her  girl's  mind  on  him,  and  if  she 
can't  columbine  as  a  bride  she  will  as  a  nun.  Young  people 
must  be  at  some  harlequinade." 

"But  it  is  very  shocking.    And  he?" 

"He  plays  fast  and  loose,  warm  and  cold.  I'm  ready  to 
settle  twenty  times  a  nobleman's  dowry  on  my  niece:    and 


192  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

she's  a  fine  girl,  a  handsome  girl,  educated  up  to  the  brim,  fit 
to  queen  it  in  any  drawing-room.  He  holds  her  by  some  arts 
that  don't  hold  him,  it  seems.    He's  all  for  politics." 

"Constance  can  scarcely  be  his  dupe  so  far,  I  should  think." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Everything  points  to  one  secret  of  his  conduct." 

"A  woman?" 

Lady  Wathin's  head  shook  for  her  sex's  pained  afl&rmative. 

Mr.  Quintin  in  the  same  fashion  signified  the  downright 
negative.    "The  fellow's  as  cold  as  a  fish." 

"Flattery  will  do  anything.    There  is,  I  fear,  one." 

"Widow?  wife?  maid?" 

"Married,  I  regret  to  say." 

"Well,  if  he'd  get  over  with  it,"  said  Quintin,  in  whose 
notions  the  seductiveness  of  a  married  woman  could  be  only 
temporary,  for  all  the  reasons  pertaining  to  her  state.  At  the 
same  time  his  view  of  Percy  Dacier  was  changed  in  thinking 
it  possible  that  a  woman  could  divert  him  from  his  political 
and  social  interests.    He  looked  incredulous. 

"You  have  heard  of  a  Mrs.  Warwick?"  said  Lady  Wathin. 

"Warwick!  I  have.  I've  never  seen  her.  At  my  broker's 
in  the  City  yesterday  I  saw  the  name  on  a  memorandum  of 
purchase  of  shares  in  a  concern  promising  ten  per  cent.,  and 
not  likely  to  carry  the  per  annum  into  the  plural.  He  told 
me  she  was  a  grand  kind  of  woman,  past  advising." 

"For  what  amount?" 

"Some  thousands,  I  think  it  was." 

"She  has  no  money:"  Lady  Wathin  corrected  her  em- 
phasis: "or  ought  to  have  none." 

"She  can't  have  got  it  from  him." 

"Did  you  notice  her  Christian  name?" 

"I  don't  recollect  it,  if  I  did.  I  thought  the  woman  a  don- 
key." 

"Would  you  consider  me  a  busybody  were  I  to  try  to  miti- 
gate this  woman's  evil  influence?  I  love  dear  Constance,  and 
should  be  happy  to  serve  her." 

"I  want  my  girl  married,"  said  old  Quintin.  "He's  one  of 
my  Parliamentary  chiefs,  with  first-rate  prospects;  good  fam- 
ily, good  sober  fellow — at  least  I  thought  so;  by  nature  T 
mean;  barring  your  incantations.  He  suits  me,  she  liking 
him." 

"She  admires  him,  I  am  sure." 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  193 

"She's  dead  on  end  for  the  fellow!" 

Lady  Wathin  felt  herself  empowered  by  Quintin  Manx  to 
undertake  the  release  of  sweet  Constance  Asper's  knight  from 
thte  toils  of  his  enchantress.  For  this  purpose  she  had  first 
an  interview  with  Mr.  Warwick,  and  next  she  hurried  to  Lady 
Dunstane  at  Copsley.  There,  after  jumbling  Mr.  Warwick's 
connubial  dispositions  and  Mrs.  Warwick's  last  book,  and  Mr. 
Percy  Dacier's  engagement  to  the  great  heiress  in  a  gossipy 
hotch-potch,  she  contrived  to  gather  a  few  items  of  fact,  as 
that  The  Young  Minister  was  probably  modeled  upon  Mr. 
Percy  Dacier.  Lady  Dunstane  made  no  concealment  of  it  as 
soon  as  she  grew  sensible  of  the  angling.  But  she  refused  her 
help  to  any  reconciliation  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warwick. 
She  declined  to  listen  to  Lady  Wathin's  entreaties.  She  de- 
clined to  give  her  reasons.  These  bookworm  women,  whose 
pride  it  is  to  fancy  that  they  can  think  for  themselves,  have  a 
great  deal  of  the  heathen  in  them,  as  morality  discovers  when 
it  wears  the  enlistment  ribbons  and  applies  to  them  to  win  re- 
cruits for  a  service  under  the  direct  blessing  of  Providence.     • 

Lady  Wathin  left  some  darts  behind  her  in  the  form  of 
moral  exclamations,  and  really  intended  morally.  For, 
though  she  did  not  like  Mrs.  Warwick,  she  had  no  wish  to 
wound,  other  than  by  stopping  her  further  studies  of  the 
Young  Minister,  and  conducting  him  to  the  young  lady  loving 
him,  besides  restoring  a  bereft  husband  to  his  own.  How 
sadly  pale  and  worn  poor  Mr.  Warwick  appeared!  The  por- 
trayal of  his  withered  visage  to  Lady  Dunstane  had  quite 
failed  to  gain  a  show  of  sympathy.  And  so  it  is  ever  with 
your  bookworm  women  pretending  to  be  philosophical!  You 
sound  them  vainly  for  a  manifestation  of  the  commonest 
human  sensibilities.  They  turn  over  the  leaves  of  a  Latin 
book  on  their  laps  while  you  are  supplicating  them  to  assist 
in  a  work  of  charity! 

Lady  Wathin's  inter jectory  notes  haunted  Emma's  ear. 
Yet  she  had  seen  nothing  in  Tony  to  let  her  suppose  that 
there  was  trouble  of  her  heart  below  the  surface;  and  her 
Tony,  when  she  came  to  Copsley,  shone  in  the  mood  of  the 
day  of  Lord  Dannisburgh's  drive  down  from  London  with 
her.  She  was  running  on  a  fresh  work;  talked  of  composi- 
tion as  a  trifle. 

"I  suppose  The  Young  Minister  is  Mr.  Percy  Dacier?"  said 
Emma, 
la 


194  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"Between  ourselves  he  is/'  Diana  replied,  smiling  at  a  secret 
guessed.  "You  know  my  model,  and  can  judge  of  the 
likeness." 

"You  write  admiringly  of  him,  Tony." 

"And  I  do  admire  him.  So  would  you,  Emmy,  if  you 
knew  him  as  well  as  I  do  now.  He  pairs  with  Mr.  Eed- 
worth;  he  also  is  the  friend  of  women.  But  he  lifts  us  to 
rather  a  higher  level  of  intellectual  friendship.  When  the 
ice  has  melted — and  it  is  thick  at  first — he  pours  forth  all 
his  ideas  without  reserve;  and  they  are  deep  and  noble.  Ever 
since  Lord  Dannisburgh's  death  and  our  sitting  together  we 
have  been  warm  friends — intimate,  I  would  say,  if  it  could  be 
said  of  one  so  self-contained.  In  that  respect,  no  young  man 
was  ever  comparable  with  him.  And  I  am  encouraged  to 
flatter  myself  that  he  unbends  to  me  more  than  to  others." 

"He  is  engaged,  or  partl}^,  I  hear;  why  does  he  not  marry?" 

"I  wish  he  would!"  Diana  said,  with  a  most  brilliant  can- 
dor of  aspect. 

Emma  read  in  it  that  it  would  complete  her  happiness,  pos- 
sibly by  fortifying  her  sense  of  security;  and  that  seemed 
right.  Her  own  meditations,  illumined  by  the  beautiful  face 
in  her  presence,  referred  to  the  security  of  Mr.  Dacier. 

"So,  then,  life  is  going  smoothly?"  said  Emma. 

"Yes,  at  a  good  pace,  and  smoothly;  not  a  torrent.  Thames- 
like, Vithout  o'erflowing  full.'  It  is  not  Lugano  and  the  Sal- 
vatore.     Perhaps  it  is  better;  as  action  is  better  than  musing." 

"ISTo  troubles  whatever?" 

"None.  Well,  except  an  Adorer'  at  times.  I  have  to  take 
him  as  my  portion.  An  impassioned  Caledonian  has  a  little 
bothered  me.  I  met  him  at  Lady  Pennon's,  and  have  been 
meeting  him,  as  soon  as  I  put  foot  out  of  my  house,  ever  since. 
If  I  could  impress  and  impound  him  to  marry  Mary  Payn- 
ham  I  should  be  glad.  By  the  way,  I  have  consented  to  let 
her  try  at  a  portrait  of  me.  No;  I  have  no  troubles.  I  have 
friends,  the  choicest  of  the  nation.  I  have  health,  a  field  for 
labor,  fairish  success  with  it;  a  mind  alive,  such  as  it  is.  I 
feel  like  that  midsummer  morning  of  our  last  drive  out  to- 
gether, the  sun  high,  clearish,  clouded  enough  to  be  cool. 
And  still  I  envy  Emmy  on  her  sofa,  mastering  Latin,  biting  at 
Greek.  What  a  wise  recommendation  that  was  of  Mr.  Red- 
worth's!  He  works  well  in  the  House.  He  spoke  excellently 
the  other  night." 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  195 

"He  runs  over  to  Ireland  this  Easter/' 

"He  sees  for  himself,  and  speaks  with  authority.  He  sees 
and  feels.  Englishmen  mean  well,  but  they  require  an  ex- 
tremity of  misery  to  waken  their  feelings." 

"It  is  coming,  he  says;  and  absit  omenr 

"Mr.  Dacier  says  he  is  the  one  Englishman  who  may  al- 
ways be  sure  of  an  Irish  hearing;  and  he  does  not  cajole  them, 
you  know.  But  the  English  defect  is  really  not  want  of  feel- 
ing so  much  as  want  of  foresight.  They  will  not  look  ahead. 
A  famine  ceasing,  a  rebellion  crushed,  they  jog  on  as  before, 
with  their  Dobbin  trot  and  blinker  confidence  in  'Saxon 
energy.'  They  should  study  the  Irish.  I  think  it  was  Mr. 
Redworth  who  compared  the  governing  of  the  Irish  to  the 
management  of  a  horse;  the  rider  should  not  grow  restive 
when  the  steed  begins  to  kick;  calmer;  firm,  calm,  per- 
suasive." 

"Does  Mr.  Dacier  agree?" 

"Not  always.  He  has  the  inveterate  national  belief  that 
Celtic  blood  is  childish,  and  the  consequently  illogical  disre- 
gard of  its  hold  of  impressions.  The  Irish — for  I  have  them 
in  my  heart,  though  I  have  not  been  among  them  for  long  at 
a  time — must  love  you  to  serve  you,  and  will  hate  you  if  you 
have  done  them  injury  and  they  have  not  wiped  it  out — they 
with  a  treble  revenge,  or  you  with  cordial  benefits.  I  have 
told  him  so  again  and  again;  ventured  to  suggest  measures." 

"He  listens  to  you,  Tony?" 

"He  says  I  have  brains.     It  ends  in  a  compliment." 

"You  have  inspired  Mr.  Eedworth." 

"If  I  have,  I  have  lived  for  some  good." 

Altogether  her  Tony's  conversation  proved  to  Emma  that 
her  perusal  of  the  model  of  The  Young  Minister  of  State  was 
an  artist's — free,  open,  and  not  discolored  by  the  personal 
tincture.  Her  heart  plainly  was  free  and  undisturbed.  She 
had  the  same  girl's  love  of  her  walks  where  wild  flowers  grew; 
if  possible,  a  keener  pleasure.  She  hummed  of  her  happiness 
in  being  at  Copsley,  singing  her  Planxty  Kelly  and  The  Puri- 
tani  by  turns.  She  stood  on  land;  she  was  not  on  the  seas. 
Emma  thought  so  with  good  reason. 

She  stood  on  land,  it  was  true,  but  she  stood  on  a  cliff  of  the 
land,  the  seas  below  and  about  her;  and  she  was  enabled  to 
hoodwink  her  friend  because  the  assured  sensation  of  her  firm 
footing  deceived  her  own  soul,  even  while  it  took  short  flights 


196  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

to  the  troubled  waters.  Of  lier  firm  footing  she  was  exult- 
ingly  proud.  She  stood  high,  close  to  danger,  without  giddi- 
ness. If  at  intervals  her  soul  flew  out  like  lightning  from  the 
rift  (a  mere  shot  of  involuntary  fancy,  it  seemed  to  her),  the 
suspicion  of  instability  made  her  draw  on  her  treasury  of 
impressions  of  the  mornings  at  Lugano — her  loftiest,  purest, 
dearest;  and  these  reinforced  her.  She  did  not  ask  herself 
why  she  should  have  to  seek  them  for  aid.  In  other  respects 
her  mind  was  alert  and  held  no  sly  covers,  as  the  fiction  of  a 
perfect  ignorant  innocence  combined  with  common  intelli- 
gence would  have  us  to  suppose  that  the  minds  of  women  can 
do.  She  was  honest  as  long  as  she  was  not  directly  ques- 
tioned, pierced  to  the  innermost  and  sanctum  of  the  bosom. 
She  could  honestly  summon  bright  light  to  her  eyes  in  wish- 
ing the  man  were  married.  She  did  not  ask  herself  why  she 
called  it  up.  The  remorseless  progressive  interrogations  of  a 
Jesuit  Father  in  pursuit  of  the  bosom's  verity  might  have 
transfixed  and  shown  her  to  herself  even  then  a  tossing  vessel 
as  to  the  spirit,  far  away  from  that  firm  land  she  trod  so 
bravely. 

Descending  from  the  woody  heights  upon  London,  Diana 
would  have  said  that  her  only  anxiety  concerned  young  Mr. 
Arthur  Eh  odes,  whose  position  she  considered  precarious,  and 
who  had  recently  taken  a  drubbing  for  venturing  to  show  a 
peep  of  his  head,  like  an  early  crocus,  in  the  literary  market. 
Her  Antonia's  last  book  had  been  reviewed  obediently  to  smart 
taps  from  the  then  commanding  baton  of  Mr.  Tonans,  and 
Mr.  Whitmonby's  choice  picking  of  spscimens  down  three 
columns  of  his  paper.  A  Literary  Review  (Charles  Eainer's 
property)  had  suggested  that  perhaps  "the  talented  authoress 
might  be  writing  too  rapidly";  and  another  actuated  by  the 
public  taste  of  the  period  for  our  "vigorous  homely  Saxon''  in 
one  and  two  syllable  words,  had  complained  of  a  "tendency  to 
polysyllabic  phraseology."  The  remainder,  a  full  majority, 
had  sounded  eulogy  with  all  their  band  instruments — drum, 
trumpet,  fife,  trombone.  Her  foregoing  work  had  raised  her 
to  Fame,  which  is  the  court  of  a  queen  when  the  lady  has 
beauty  and  social  influence,  and  critics  are  her  dedicated 
courtiers,  gaping  for  the  royal  mouth  to  be  opened,  and  re- 
serving the  kicks  of  their  independent  manhood  for  infamous 
outsiders,  whom  they  hoist  in  the  style  and  particular  service 
of  pitchforks.      They  had  fallen  upon  a  little  volume  of  verse. 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  197 

"like  a  body  of  barndoor  hens  on  a  stranger  chick/'  Diana 
complained;  and  she  chid  herselJf  angrily  for  letting  it  escape 
her  forethought  to  propitiate  them  on  the  author's  behalf. 
Young  Ehodes  was  left  with  scarce  a  feather;  and  what  re- 
mained to  him  appeared  a  preposterous  ornament  for  the 
decoration  of  a  shivering  and  welted  poet.  He  laughed,  or 
tried  the  mouth  of  laughter.  Antonia's  literary  conscience  was 
vexed  at  the  different  treatment  she  had  met  and  so  impera- 
tively needed,  that  the  reverse  of  it  would  have  threatened  the 
smooth  sailing  of  her  costly  household.  A  merry-go-round 
of  creditors  required  a  corresponding  whirligig  of  receipts. 
She  felt  mercenary,  debased  by  comparison  with  the  well- 
scourged  verse-mason,  Orpheus  of  the  untenanted  city,  who 
had  done  his  publishing  ingenuously  for  glory;  a  good  in- 
stance of  the  comic-pathetic.  She  wrote  to  Emma,  begging 
her  to  take  him  in  at  Copsley  for  a  few  days:  "I  told  you  I 
had  no  troubles.  I  am  really  troubled  about  this  poor  boy. 
He  has  very  little  money  and  has  embarked  on  literature.  I 
cannot  induce  any  of  my  friends  to  lend  him  a  hand.  Mr. 
Bed  worth  gruffly  insists  on  his  going  back  to  his  law-clerk's 
office  and  stool,  and  Mr.  Dacier  says  that  no  place  is  vacant. 
The  reality  of  Lord  Dannisburgh's  death  is  brought  before 
me  by  my  helplessness.  He  would  have  made  him  an  as- 
sistant private  secretary,  pending  a  Government  appointment, 
rather  than  let  me  plead  in  vain." 

Mr.  Ehodes,  with  his  traveling  bag  was  packed  off  to 
Copsley,  to  enjoy  a  change  of  scene  after  his  run  of  the 
gauntlet.  He  was  very  heartily  welcomed  by  Lady  Dunstane, 
both  for  her  Tony's  sake  and  his  own  modest  worship  of  that 
luminary,  which  could  permit  of  being  transparent;  but 
chiefly  she  welcomed  him  as  the  living  proof  of  Tony's  dis- 
engagement from  anxiety,  since  he  was  her  one  spot  of  trou- 
ble, and  could  easily  be  comforted  by  reading  with  her,  and 
wandering  through  the  spring  woods  along  the  heights.  He 
had  a  happy  time,  midway  in  air  between  his  accomplished 
hostess  and  his  protecting  goddess.  His  bruises  were  soon 
healed.  Each  day  was  radiant  to  him,  whether  it  rained  or 
shone;  and  by  his  looks  and  what  he  said  of  himself  Lady 
Dunstane  understood  that  he  was  in  the  highest  temper  of 
the  human  creature  tuned  to  thrilling  accord  with  nature. 
It  was  her  generous  Tony's  work.  She  blessed  it,  and  liked 
the  youth  the  better. 


198  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

During  the  stay  of  Mr.  Arthur  Ehodes  at  Copsley  Sir  Lukin 
came  on  a  visit  to  his  wife.  He  mentioned  reports  in  the  scan- 
dal-papers: one,  that  Mr.  P.  D.  would  shortly  lead  to  the 
altar  the  lovely  heiress  Miss  A., — Percy  Dacier  and  Constance 
Asper;  another,  that  a  reconciliation  was  to  be  expected  be- 
tween the  beautiful  authoress  Mrs.  W.  and  her  husband. 
"Perhaps  it's  the  best  thing  she  can  do,"  Sir  Lukin  added. 

Lady  Dunstane  pronounced  a  woman's  unforgiving  "Never." 
The  revolt  of  her  own  sensations  assured  her  of  Tony's  un- 
conquerable repugnance.  In  conversation  subsequently  with 
Arthur  Ehodes  she  heard  that  he  knew  the  son  of  Mr.  War- 
wick's attorney,  a  Mr.  Fenn;  and  he  had  gathered  from  him 
some  information  of  Mr.  Warwick's  condition  of  health.  It 
had  been  alarming;  young  Fenn  said  it  was  confirmed  heart- 
disease.  His  father  frequently  saw  Mr.  Warwick,  and  said 
lie  was  fretting  himself  to  death. 

It  seemed  just  a  possibility  that  Tony's  natural  compassion- 
ateness  had  wrought  on  her  to  immolate  herself  and  nurse  to 
his  end  the  man  who  had  wrecked  her  life.  Lady  Dunstane 
waited  for  news.  At  last  she  wrote,  touching  the  report  inci- 
dentally. There  was  no  reply.  The  silence  ensuing  after 
such  a  question  responded  forcibly. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

BETWEEN  DIANA  AND  DACIER:    THE  WIND  EAST  OVER 
BLEAK  LAND. 

On  the  third  day  of  the  Easter  recess  Percy  Dacier  landed 
from  the  Havre  steamer  at  Caen  and  drove  straightway  for 
the  sandy  coast,  past  fields  of  colza  to  brine-blown  meadows 
of  coarse  grass,  and  then  to  the  low  dunes  and  long  stretch- 
ing sands  of  the  ebb  in  semi-circle;  a  desolate  place  at  that 
season;  with  a  dwarf  fishing- village  by  the  shore;  an  east 
wind  driving  landward  in  streamers  every  object  that  had  a 
scrap  to  fly.  He  made  head  to  the  inn,  where  the  first  person 
he  encountered  in  the  passage  was  Diana's  maid,  Danvers, 
who  relaxed  from  the  dramatic  exaggeration  of  her  surprise 
at  the  sight  of  a  real  English  gentleman  in  these  woebegone 
regions  to  inform  him  that  her  mistress  might  be  found  walk- 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  Idd 

ing  somewhere  along  the  sea-shore,  and  had  her  dog  to  pro- 
tect her.  They  were  to  stay  here  a  whole  week,  Danvers 
added,  for  a  conveyance  of  her  private  sentiments.  Second 
thoughts,  however,  whispered  to  her  shrewdness  that  his  ar- 
rival could  only  he  by  appointment.  She  had  been  anticipat- 
ing something  of  the  sort  for  some  time. 

Dacier  butted  against  the  stringing  wind,  that  kept  him 
at  a  rocking  incline  to  his  left  for  a  mile.  He  then  discerned 
in  what  had  seemed  a  dredger's  dot  on  the  sands  a  lady's 
figure,  unmistakably  she,  without  the  corroborating  testi- 
mony of  Leander  paw-deep  in  the  low-tide  water.  She  was 
out  at  a  distance  on  the  ebb-sands,  hurtled,  gyred,  beaten  to  all 
shapes,  in  rolls,  twists,  volumes,  like  a  blown  banner-flag,  by 
the  pressing  wind.  A  kerchief  tied  her  bonnet  under  her 
chin.  Bonnet  and  breast-ribbons  rattled  rapidly  as  drummer- 
sticks.  She  stood  near  the  little  running  ripple  of  the  flat 
sea-water,  as  if  hurried  from  a  long  streaked  back  to  a  tiny 
imitation  of  spray.  When  she  turned  to  the  shore  she  saw 
him  advancing,  but  did  not  recognize;  when  they  met  she 
merely  looked  with  wide  parted  lips.  This  was  no  appoint- 
ment. 

"I  had  to  see  you,"  Dacier  said. 

She  colored  to  a  deeper  red  than  the  rose-conjuring  wind 
had  whipped  in  her  cheeks.  Her  quick  intuition  of  the  rea- 
son of  his  coming  barred  a  mental  evasion,  and  she  had  no 
thought  of  asking  either  him  or  herself  what  special  urgency 
had  brought  him. 

"I  have  been  here  four  days." 

'^Lady  Esquart  spoke  of  the  place." 

"Lady  Esquart  should  not  have  betrayed  me." 

"She  did  it  inadvertently,  without  an  idea  of  my  profiting 
by  it." 

Diana  indicated  the  scene  in  a  glance.  "Dreary  country, 
do  you  think?" 

"Anywhere!"  said  he. 

They  walked  up  the  sand-heap.  The  roaring  Easter  with 
its  shrieks  and  whistles  at  her  ribbons  was  not  favorable  to 
speech.  His  "Anywhere!"  had  a  penetrating  significance,  the 
fuller  for  the  break  that  left  it  vague. 

Speech  between  them  was  commanded;  he  could  not  be 
suffered  to  remain.  She  descended  upon  a  sheltered  path- 
way running  along  a  ditch,  the  border  of  pastures  where 


aOO  DIANA  OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

cattle  cropped,  raised  heads,  and  resumed  their  one  comfort- 
ing occupation. 

Diana  gazed  on  them,  smarting  from  the  buffets  of  the 
winds  she  had  met. 

"No  play  of  their  tails  to-day,"  she  said,  as  she  slackened 
her  steps.     "You  left  Lady  Esquart  well?" 

"Lady  Esquart  ...  I  think  was  well.  I  had  to  see 
you.  I  thought  you  would  be  with  her  in  Berkshire.  She 
told  me  of  a  little  seaside  place  close  to  Caen." 

"You  had  to  see  me?" 

"I  miss  you  now  if  it's  a  day!" 

"I  heard  a  story  in  London     .     .     ." 

"In  London  there  are  many  stories.  I  heard  one.  Is  there 
a  foundation  for  it?" 

"No." 

He  breathed  relieved.  "I  wanted  to  see  you  once  before 
.  .  .  if  it  was  true.  It  would  have  made  a  change  in  my 
life — a  gap." 

"You  do  me  the  honor  to  like  my  Sunday  evenings?" 

"Beyond  anything  London  can  offer." 

"A  letter  would  have  reached  me." 

"I  should  have  had  to  wait  for  the  answer.  There  is  no 
truth  in  it?" 

Her  choice  was  to  treat  the  direct  assailant  frankly  or  im- 
peril her  defense  by  the  ordinary  feminine  evolutions,  which 
might  be  taken  for  inviting;  poor  pranks  always. 

"There  have  been  overtures,"  she  said. 

"Forgive  me;  I  have  scarcely  the  right  to  ask  .  .  . 
speak  of  it." 

"My  friends  may  use  their  right  to  take  an  interest  in  my 
fortunes." 

"I  thought  I  might,  on  my  way  to  Paris,  turn  aside  .  .  . 
coming  by  this  route." 

"If  you  determined  not  to  lose  much  of  your  time.*' 

The  coolness  of  her  fencing  disconcerted  a  gentleman  con- 
scious of  his  madness.  She  took  instant  advantage  of  any 
circuitous  move;  she  gave  him  no  practical  point.  He  was 
little  skilled  in  the  arts  of  attack,  and  felt  that  she  checked 
his  impetuousness;  respected  her  for  it,  chafed  at  it,  writhed 
with  the  fervors  precipitating  him  here,  and  relapsed  on  his 
pleasure  in  seeing  her  face,  hearing  her  voice. 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  201 

"Your  happiness,  I  hope,  is  the  chief  thought  in  such  a 
case/'  he  said. 

"I  am  sure  you  would  consider  it." 

"I  can't  quite  forget  my  own." 

"You  compliment  an  ambitious  hostess." 

Dacier  glanced  across  the  pastures,  "What  was  it  that 
tempted  you  to  this  place?" 

"A  poet  would  say  it  looks  like  a  figure  in  the  shroud.  It 
has  no  features;  it  has  a  sort  of  grandeur  belonging  to  death. 
I  heard  of  it  as  the  place  where  I  might  be  certain  of  not 
meeting  an  acquaintance." 

"And  I  am  the  intruder." 

"An  hour  or  two  will  not  give  you  that  title." 

"Am  I  to  count  the  minutes  by  my  watch?" 

"By  the  sun.  We  will  supply  you  an  omelette  and  piquette, 
and  send  you  back  sobered  and  friarly  to  Caen  for  Paris  at 
sunset." 

"Let  the  fare  be  Spartan.  I  could  take  my  black  broth  with 
philosophy  every  day  of  the  year  under  your  auspices.  What 
I  should  miss     .     .     ." 

"You  bring  no  news  of  the  world  or  the  House  ?" 

"None.  You  know  as  much  as  I  know.  The  Irish  agita- 
tion is  chronic.     The  Corn  Law  threatens  to  be  the  same." 

"And  your  chief — in  personal  colloquy?" 

"He  keeps  a  calm  front.  I  may  tell  you — there  is  nothing 
I  would  not  confide  to  you — he  has  let  fall  some  dubious 
words  in  private.     I  don't  know  what  to  think  of  them." 

"But  if  he  should  waver?" 

"It's  not  wavering.     It's  the  openness  of  his  mind." 

"Ah!  the  mind.  We  imagine  it  free.  The  House  and 
the  country  are  the  sentient  frame  governing  the  mind  of 
the  politician  more  than  his  ideas.  He  cannot  think  inde- 
pendently of  them;  nor  I  of  my  natural  anatomy.  You  will 
test  the  truth  of  that  after  your  omelette  and  piquette,  and 
marvel  at  the  quitting  of  your  line  of  route  for  Paris.  As 
soon  as  the  mind  attempts  to  think  independently  it  is  like  a 
kite  with  the  cord  cut,  and  performs  a  series  of  darts  and 
frisks,  that  have  the  look  of  wildest  liberty  till  you  see  it  fall 
flat  to  earth.  The  openness  of  his  mind  is  most  honorable 
to  him." 

"Ominous  for  his  party." 

"Likely  to  be  good  for  his  country." 


202  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"That  is  the  question." 

"Prepare  to  encounter  it.  In  polities  I  am  with  the  active 
minority  on  behalf  of  the  inert  but  suffering  majority.  That 
is  my  rule.  It  leads,  unless  you  have  a  despotism,  to  the 
conquering  side.  It  is  always  the  noblest.  I  won't  say, 
listen  to  me;  only  do  believe  my  words  have  some  weight. 
This  is  a  question  of  bread." 

"It  involves  many  other  questions." 

"And  how  clearly  those  leaders  put  their  case!  They  are 
admirable  debaters.  If  I  were  asked  to  write  against  them  I 
should  have  but  to  quote  them  to  confound  my  argument.  I 
tried  it  once,  and  wasted  a  couple  of  my  precious  hours." 

"They  are  cogent  debaters,"  Dacier  assented.  "They  make 
me  wince  now  and  then  without  convincing  me;  I  own  it  to 
you.  The  confession  is  not  agreeable,  though  it's  a  small 
matter." 

"One's  pride  may  feel  a  touch  with  the  foils  as  keenly  as 
the  point  of  a  rapier,"  said  Diana. 

The  remark  drew  a  sharp  look  of  pleasure  from  him. 

"Does  the  Princess  Egeria  propose  to  dismiss  the  indi- 
vidual she  inspires,  when  he  is  growing  most  sensible  of  her 
wisdom?" 

"A  young  Minister  of  State  should  be  gleaning  at  large 
when  holiday  is  granted  him." 

Dacier  colored.  "May  I  presume  on  what  is  currently  re- 
ported?" 

"Parts,  parts;  a  bit  here,  a  bit  there,"  she  rejoined.  "Au- 
thors find  their  models  where  they  can,  and  generally  hit  on 
the  nearest." 

"Happy  the  nearest!" 

"If  you  run  to  interjections  I  shall  cite  you  a  sentence  from 
your  latest  speech  in  the  House." 

He  asked  for  it,  and  to  school  him  she  consented  to  flatter 
with  her  recollection  of  his  commonest  words:  "'Dealing 
with  subjects  of  this  nature  emotionally  does  not  advance  us 
a  calculable  inch.' " 

"I  must  have  said  that  in  relation  to  hard  matter  of 
business." 

"It  applies.  There  is  my  hostelry,  and  the  spectral  form 
of  Danvers  utterly  depaysee.  Have  you  spoken  to  the  poor 
soul?  I  can  never  discover  the  links  of  her  attachment  to 
my  service," 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  203 

"She  knows  a  good  mistress.  I  have  but  a  few  minutes, 
if  you  are  relentless.  May  I  .  .  .  shall  I  ever  be  privi- 
leged to  speak  your  Christian  name?" 

"My  Christian  name!  It  is  Pagan.  In  one  sphere  I  am 
Hecate.     Kemember  that." 

"I  am  not  among  the  people  who  so  regard  you." 

"The  time  may  come." 

"Diana!" 

"Constance!" 

"I  break  no  tie.  I  owe  no  allegiance  whatever  to  the 
name." 

"Keep  to  the  formal  title  with  me.  We  are  Mrs.  Warwick 
and  Mr.  Dacier.  I  think  I  am  two  years  younger  than  you; 
socially,  therefore,  ten  in  seniority;  and  I  know  how  this 
flower  of  friendship  is  nourished  and  may  be  withered.  You 
see  already  what  you  have  done?  You  have  cast  me  on  the 
discretion  of  my  maid.  I  suppose  her  trusty,  but  I  am  at 
her  mercy,  and  a  breath  from  her  to  the  people  beholding  me 
as  Hecate,  queen  of  witches!  ...  I  have  a  sensation  of 
the  sirocco  it  would  blow." 

"In  that  event  the  least  I  can  offer  is  my  whole  life." 

'^e  will  not  conjecture  the  event." 

"The  best  I  could  hope  for!" 

"I  see  I  shall  have  to  revise  the  next  edition  of  The  Young 
Minister,  and  make  an  emotional  curate  of  him.  Observe 
Danvers.  The  woman  is  wretched;  and  now  she  sees  me 
coming  she  pretends  to  be  using  her  wits  in  studying  the 
things  about  her,  as  I  have  directed.  She  is  a  riddle.  I  have 
the  idea  that  any  morning  she  may  explode;  and  yet  I  trust 
her  and  sleep  soundly.  I  must  be  free,  though  I  vex  the 
world's  watchdogs.  So,  Danvers,  you  are  noticing  how  thor- 
oughly Frenchwomen  do  their  work." 

Danvers  replied  with  a  slight  mincing:  "They  may,  ma'am; 
but  they  chatter  chatter  so." 

"The  result  proves  that  it  is  not  a  waste  of  energy.  They 
manage  their  fowls  too." 

"They've  no  such  thing  as  mutton,  ma'am." 

Daciei  patriotically  laughed. 

"She  strikes  the  apology  for  wealthy  and  leisurely  land- 
lords," Diana  said. 

Danvers  remarked  that  the  poor  fed  meagerly  in  France. 
She  was  not  convinced  of  its  being  good  for  them  by  hearing 


204  DIANA    OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

that  they  could  work  on  it  sixteen  hours  out  of  the  four-and- 
twenty. 

Mr.  Percy  Dacier's  repast  was  furnished  to  him  half-an- 
hour  later.  At  sunset  Diana,  taking  Danvers  beside  her, 
walked  with  him  to  the  line  of  the  country  road  bearing  on 
Caen.  The  wind  had  sunk.  A  large  brown  disk  paused  ray- 
less  on  the  western  hills. 

"A  Dacier  ought  to  feel  at  home  in  Normandy;  and  you 
may  have  sprung  from  this  neighborhood,"  said  she,  simply 
to  chat.  "Here  the  land  is  poorish,  and  a  mile  inland  rich 
enough  to  bear  repeated  crops  of  colza,  which  tries  the  soil, 
I  hear.  As  for  beauty,  those  blue  hills  you  see  enfold  charm- 
ing valleys.  I  meditate  an  expedition  to  Harcourt  before  I 
return.  An  English  professor  of  his  native  tongue  at  the 
Lycee  at  Caen  told  me,  on  my  way  here,  that  for  twenty 
shillings  a  week  you  may  live  in  royal  ease  round  about  Har- 
court. So  we  have  our  bed  and  board  in  prospect  if  fortune 
fails  us,  Danvers." 

"I  would  rather  die  in  England,  ma'am,"  was  the  maid's 
reply. 

Dacier  set  foot  on  his  carriage-step.  He  drew  a  long  breath 
to  say  a  short  farewell,  and  he  and  Diana  parted. 

They  parted  as  the  plainest  of  sincere  good  friends,  each 
at  heart  respecting  the  other  for  the  repression  of  that  which 
their  hearts  craved;  any  word  of  which  might  have  carried 
them  headlong,  bound  together  on  a  Mazeppa-race,  with 
scandal  for  the  hounding  wolves  and  social  ruin  for  the  rocks 
and  torrents. 

Dacier  was  the  thankfuller,  the  most  admiring  of  the  two; 
at  the  same  time  the  least  satisfied.  He  saw  the  abyss  she 
had  aided  him  in  escaping;  and  it  was  refreshful  to  look 
abroad  after  his  desperate  impulse.  Prominent  as  he  stood 
before  the  world,  he  could  not  think  without  a  shudder  of 
behaving  like  a  young  frenetic  of  the  passion.  Those  whose 
aim  is  at  the  leadership  of  the  English  people  know  that, 
however  truly  based  the  charges  of  hypocrisy,  soundness  of 
moral  fiber  runs  throughout  the  country  and  is  the  national 
integrity,  which  may  condone  old  sins  for  present  services, 
but  will  not  have  present  sins  to  flout  it.  He  was  in  tune 
with  the  English  character.  The  passion  was  in  him  never- 
theless, and  the  stronger  for  a  slow  growth  that  confirmed  its 
lijiion  of  tiie  mi^d  and  heart.    Her  counsel  fortified  hin;,  h^r 


DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  205 

suggestions  opened  springs;  her  phrases  were  golden-lettered 
in  his  memory;  and  more,  she  had  worked  an  extraordinary 
change  in  his  views  of  life  and  aptitude  for  social  converse; 
he  acknowledged  it  with  genial  candor.  Through  her  he 
was  encouraged,  led,  excited  to  sparkle  with  the  witty,  feel 
new  gifts,  or  a  greater  breadth  of  nature;  and,  thanking  her, 
he  became  thirstily  susceptible  to  her  dark  beauty;  he  claimed 
to  have  found  the  key  of  her,  and  he  prized  it.  She  was 
not  passionless;  the  blood  flowed  warm.  Proud,  chaste, 
she  was  noble-spirited;  having  an  intellectual  refuge  from 
the  besiegings  of  the  blood;  a  rock-fortress.  The  "wife  no 
wife"  appeared  to  him,  striking  the  higher  elements  of  the 
man,  the  commonly  masculine  also.  Would  he  espouse  her 
had  he  the  chance?  To-morrow!  this  instant!  With  her  to 
back  him  he  would  be  doubled  in  manhood,  doubled  in  brain 
and  heart-energy.  To  call  her  wife,  spring  from  her  and 
return,  a  man  might  accept  his  fate  to  fight  Trojan  or  Greek, 
sure  of  his  mark  on  the  enemy. 

But  if,  after  all,  this  imputed  Helen  of  a  decayed  Paris 
passed,  submissive  to  the  legitimate  solicitor,  back  to  her 
husband  ? 

The  thought  shot  Dacier  on  his  legs  for  a  look  at  the  blank 
behind  him.  He  vowed  she  had  promised  it  should  not  be. 
Could  it  ever  be,  after  the  ruin  the  meanly  suspicious  fellow 
had  brought  upon  her?  Diana  voluntarily  reunited  to  the 
treacherous  cur? 

He  sat,  resolving  somberly  that  if  the  debate  arose  he  would 
try  what  force  he  had  to  save  her  from  such  an  ignominy,  and 
dedicate  his  life  to  her,  let  the  world  wag  its  tongue.  So  the 
knot  would  be  cut. 

Men  unaccustomed  to  a  knot  in  their  system  find  the  pros- 
pect of  cutting  it  an  extreme  relief,  even  when  they  know 
that  the  cut  has  an  edge  to  wound  mortally  as  well  as  pacify. 
The  wound  was  not  heavy  payment  for  the  rapture  of  hav- 
ing so  incomparable  a  woman  his  own.  He  reflected  won- 
deringly  on  the  husband,  as  he  had  previously  done,  and 
came  again  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  a  poor  creature, 
abjectly  jealous  of  a  wife  he  could  neither  master,  nor  equal, 
nor  attract.  And,  thinking  of  jealousy,  Dacier  felt  none; 
none  of  individuals,  only  of  facts;  her  marriage,  her  bond- 
age. Her  condemnation  to  perpetual  widowhood  angered 
him,  as  at  an  imrighteous  decree.     The  sharp  sweet  bloom 


206  DIANA    OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

of  her  beauty,  fresh  in  swarthiness,  under  the  whipping  Easter, 
cried  out  against  that  loathed  inhumanity.  Or  he  made 
it  cry. 

Being  a  stranger  to  the  jealousy  of  men,  he  took  the  soft 
assurance  that  he  was  preferred  above  them  all.  Competitors 
were  numerous;  not  any  won  her  eyes  as  he  did.  She  re- 
vealed nothing  of  the  same  pleasures  in  the  shining  of  the 
others  touched  by  her  magical  wand.  Would  she  have  par- 
doned one  of  them  the  "Diana!"  bursting  from  his  mouth? 

She  was  not  a  woman  for  trifling,  still  less  for  secrecy.  He 
was  as  little  the  kind  of  lover.  Both  would  be  ready  to  take 
up  their  burden,  if  the  burden  was  laid  on  them.  Diana  had 
thus  far  impressed  him. 

Meanwhile  he  faced  the  cathedral  towers  of  the  ancient 
Norman  city,  standing  up  in  the  smoky  hues  of  the  west; 
and  a  sentence  out  of  her  book  seemed  fitting  to  the  scene 
and  what  he  felt.  He  rolled  it  over  luxuriously  as  the  next 
of  delights  to  having  her  beside  him. — She  wrote  of 
"Thoughts  that  are  bare  dark  outlines,  colored  by  some  old 
passion  of  the  soul,  like  towers  of  a  distant  city  seen  in  the 
funeral  waste  of  day." — His  bluff  English  anti-poetic  training 
would  have  caused  him  to  shrug  at  the  stuff  coming  from 
another  pen;  he  might  condescendingly  have  criticized  it, 
with  a  sneer  embalmed  in  humor.  The  words  were  hers; 
she  had  written  them;  almost  by  a  sort  of  anticipation,  he 
imagined;  for  he  at  once  fell  into  the  mood  they  suggested, 
and  had  a  full  crop  of  the  "bare  dark  outlines"  of  thoughts 
colored  by  his  particular  form  of  passion. 

Diana  had  impressed  him  powerfully  when  she  set  him 
swallowing  and  assimilating  a  sentence  ethereally  thin  in  sub- 
stance, of  mere  sentimental  significance,  that  he  would  ante- 
cedently have  read  alou.d  in  a  drawing-room,  picking  up  the 
book  by  hazard,  as  your  modern  specimen  of  romantic  vapor- 
ing. Mr.  Dacier,  however,  was  at  the  time  in  observation  of 
the  towers  of  Caen,  fresh  from  her  presence,  animated  to  some 
conception  of  her  spirit.  He  drove  into  the  streets,  desiring, 
half  determining,  to  risk  a  drive  back  on  the  morrow. 

The  cold  light  of  the  morrow  combined  with  his  fear  of 
distressing  her  to  restrain  him.  Perhaps  he  thought  it  well 
not  to  risk  his  gains.  He  was  a  northerner  in  blood.  He 
may  have  thought  it  well  not  further  to  run  the  personal  risk 
immediately. 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  2a7 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

RECORDS  A  VISIT  TO  DIANA  FROM  ONE  OF  THE  WORLD'S 
GOOD  WOMEN. 

Pure  disengagement  of  contemplativeness  had  selected 
Percy  Dacier  as  the  model  of  her  Young  Minister  of  State, 
Diana  supposed.  Could  she  otherwise  have  dared  to  sketch 
him?     She  certainly  would  not  have  done  it  now. 

That  was  a  reflection  similar  to  what  is  entertained  by  one 
who  has  dropped  from  a  precipice  to  the  midway  ledge  over 
the  abyss,  where  caution  of  the  whole  sensitive  being  is  re- 
quired for  simple  self-preservation.  How  could  she  have  been 
induced  to  study  and  portray  him!  It  seemed  a  form  of 
dementia. 

She  thought  this  while  imagining  the  world  to  be  interro- 
gating her.  When  she  interrogated  herself  she  flew  to  Lugano 
and  her  celestial  Salvatore,  that  she  might  be  defended  from 
a  charge  of  the  dreadful  weakness  of  her  sex.  Surely  she 
there  had  proof  of  her  capacity  for  pure  disengagement. 
Even  in  recollection  the  springs  of  spiritual  happiness  renewed 
the  bubbling  crystal  play.  She  believed  that  a  divineness 
had  wakened  in  her  there,  to  strengthen  her  to  the  end,  ward 
her  from  any  complicity  in  her  sex's  culprit  blushing. 

Dacier's  cry  of  her  name  was  the  cause,  she  chose  to  think, 
of  the  excessive  circumspection  she  must  henceforth  prac- 
tiee;  precariously  footing,  embracing  hardest  earth,  the  plain- 
est rules,  to  get  back  to  safety.  Not  that  she  was  personally 
endangered,  or  at  least  not  spiritually;  she  could  always  fly  in 
soul  to  her  heights.  But  she  had  now  to  be  on  guard,  con- 
stantly in  the  fencing  attitude.  And  watchful  of  herself  as 
well.  That  was  admitted  with  a  ready  frankness,  to  save  it 
from  being  a  necessitated  and  painful  confession;  for  the 
voluntary  acquiescence,  if  it  involved  her  in  her  sex,  claimed 
an  individual  exemption.  "Women  are  women,  and  I  am  a 
woman;  but  I  am  I,  and  unlike  them;  I  see  we  are  weak,  and 
weakness  tempts;  in  owning  the  prudence  of  guarded  steps  I 
am  armed.  It  is  by  dissembling,  feigning  immunity,  that  we 
are  imperiled.''     She  would  have  phrased  it  so,  with  some 


208  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

anger  at  her  feminine  nature  as  well  as  at  the  subjection 
forced  on  her  by  circumstances. 

Besides,  her  position  and  Percy  Dacier's  threw  the  fancied 
danger  into  remoteness.  The  world  was  her  stepmother, 
vigilant  to  become  her  judge;  and  the  world  was  his  task- 
master, hopeful  of  him,  yet  able  to  strike  him  down  for  an 
offense.  She  saw  their  situation  as  he  did.  The  course  of 
folly  must  be  bravely  taken,  if  taken  at  all.  Disguise  degraded 
her  to  the  reptiles. 

This  was  faced.     Consequently  there  was  no  fear  of  it. 

She  had  very  easily  proved  that  she  had  skill  and  self- 
possession  to  keep  him  rational,  and  therefore  they  could  con- 
tinue to  meet.  A  little  outburst  of  frenzy  to  a  reputably 
handsome  woman  could  be  treated  as  the  froth  of  a  passing 
wave.     Men  have  the  trick,  infants  their  fevers. 

Diana's  days  were  spent  in  reasoning.  Her  nights  were 
not  so  tunable  to  the  superior  mind.  When  asleep  she  was 
the  sport  of  elves  that  danced  her  into  tangles  too  deliciously 
unraveled,  and  left  new  problems  for  the  wise-eyed  and 
anxious  morning.  She  solved  them  with  the  thought  that 
in  sleep  it  was  the  mere  ordinary  woman  who  fell  a  prey  to 
her  tormentors;  awake,  she  dispersed  the  swarm,  her  sky  was 
clear.  Gradually  the  persecutions  ceased,  thanks  to  her 
active  pen. 

A  letter  from  her  legal  adviser,  old  Mr.  Braddock,  in- 
formed her  that  no  grounds  existed  for  apprehending  marital 
annoyance,  and  late  in  May  her  household  had  resumed  its 
customary  round. 

She  examined  her  accounts.  The  Debit  and  Credit  sides 
presented  much  of  the  appearance  of  male  and  female  in  our 
jog-trot  civilization.  They  matched  middling  well;  with 
rather  too  marked  a  tendency  to  strain  the  leash  and  run 
frolic  on  the  part  of  friend  Debit  (the  wanton  male),  which 
deepened  the  blush  of  the  comparison.  Her  father  had  noticed 
the  same  funny  thing  in  his  effort  to  balance  his  tugging  ac- 
counts: "Now  then  for  a  look  at  Man  and  Wife:"  except 
that  he  made  Debit  stand  for  the  portly  frisky  female.  Credit 
the  decorous  and  contracted  other  half,  a  prim  gentleman  of 
a  constitutionally  lean  habit  of  body,  remonstrating  with  her. 
"You  seem  to  forget  that  we  are  married,  my  dear,  and  must 
walk  in  step  or  bundle  into  the  Bench,"  Dan  Merion  used  to 
say. 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  209 

Diana  had  not  so  much  to  rebuke  in  Mr.  Debit;  or  not  at 
the  first  reckoning.  But  his  ways  were  curious.  She  grew 
distrustful  of  him,  after  dismissing  him  with  a  quiet  admoni- 
tion and  discovering  a  series  of  ambush  bills,  which  he  must 
have  been  aware  of  when  he  was  allowed  to  pass  as  an  honor- 
able citizen.  His  answer  to  her  reproaches  pleaded  the  neces- 
sitousness  of  his  purchases  and  expenditure;  a  capital  plea; 
and  Mrs.  Credit  was  requested  by  him,  in  a  courteous  man- 
ner, to  drive  her  pen  the  faster,  so  that  she  might  wax  to  a 
corresponding  size  and  satisfy  the  world's  idea  of  fitness  in 
couples.  She  would  have  costly  furniture,  because  it  pleased 
her  taste;  and  a  French  cook,  for  a  like  reason,  in  justice 'to 
her  guests;  and  trained  servants;  and  her  tribe  of  pensionedfs.; 
flowers  she  would  have  profuse  and  fresh  at  her  windoWs'aiid 
over  the  rooms;  and  the  pictures  and  engravings^ioiiiihe'Wttlls 
were  (always  for  the  good  reason  mentioned)  chbice  ories^  and 
she  had  a  love  of  old  lace,  she  loved  colors  asi  isH4j'iyoV)$d'i8h.edr- 
fulness,  and  silks,  and  satin  hangings,  Indidn'^prbofyx  p$rvifigs, 
countless  mirrors.  Oriental  woods,  chair«i:andffdesks>il»Mh')soiiife 
feature  or  a  flourish  in  them,  del^d^kte^able^'^s^fitk  aiiMope 
legs,  of  approved  workmanship  infth^bliroiioi'iD^y^o'f  BttM^eaii 
upholstery,  and  marble  clodfe^^offv/cuurling  deirie^^^toogymtlM 
Time,  mantelpiece  decor£ti'oits;fri)lia9trii[f8i  e'^tk^ftB  ^SSt-M)- 
favorite  authors;  her  bed'eiambei?^  'Mb,ii^e  thgiifi^iTjte 
sleep  a  dainty  cosiness  in  'aerKtlit&'a^eBegiT  H'gfi€f67'*i65*jGP'^i* 
less  directly,  the  peccant  :billiii  'XS(K©ii^iwa]kll^duo41l  to:^]^^(f& 
to  a  nicety  the  amount  sheoconlSntBl^i(mfpakvtimi^;o^W<^ky^ 
income  from  her  investmefate(^nfi*iifetl)$tM^"^''5Fhe''^ft^^ 
ways;  the  days  of  half-yearly^  i^i:^m^B^'€^^^'y^^^^kM$j 
her  to  some  proportions  begid£ith<^'-^ai^iffig^odi^'^}l[  ifiJfeg}- 
partner,  who  was  proud  of  it,;2aidJr^f^ed'h?er -to^'tih^tr^g^^p'^ 
she  could  summon  with  her  pi]k,'ia?t  «)^milkfifci^ef)idfeMli$toi 
tion.  His  compliments  werefi:sinOile{)ot^^'^re.t^da8M¥^i 
He  assured  her  that  she  hadiststek^^^^i^hl^sP^/ M'^fiflrHe^J- 
haustible  mine;  by  writing  otdy  ao^ei ^olittlit  f agierr^ghfe! 'e&M<d 
double  her  income;  counting )aiibroaS^;p(5>pulai^5r,5tt^b?gQife 
and  so  on  a  tide  of  success  dowfiii^  Maefiifig^'fiv^%%W 
sheer  golden.  Behold  how  it'^patkleiP  lAri^^>>;rgitfeM^^dlstifit 
our  winged  hours  of  youth  fo!P(waBtrbl  ^fcOU^Sgg'i^b  '¥feaB«i^^ffi(6 
riches  we  can  command?  Det>it'^as  ^tobii^iMb^i \te^^^ 
answerable.  lod  io  ,fieifR+T  hoilb,  !^>"fi  Mniau; 

Another  calculator,  an  accffetbm«ftffi&i^ifciffiei5taM5*-B%riitrtri 

14 


210  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

lous  arithmetician,  had  heen  at  work  for  some  time  upon  a 
speculative  summing  of  the  outlay  of  Diana's  establishment, 
as  to  its  chances  of  swamping  the  income.  Eedworth  could 
guess  pretty  closely  the  cost  of  a  household,  if  his  care  for 
the  holder  set  him  venturing  on  averages.  He  knew  nothing 
of  her  ten  per  cent,  investment,  and  considered  her  fixed  in- 
come a  beggarly  regiment  to  marshal  against  the  invader.  He 
fancied,  however,  in  his  ignorance  of  literary  profits,  that  a 
popular  writer,  selling  several  editions,  had  come  to  an  El 
Dorado.  There  was  the  mine.  It  required  a  diligent  work- 
ing. Diana  was  often  struck  by  hearing  Eedworth  ask  her 
ottoijher  next  book  might  be  expected.  He  appeared  to  have 
;Ji399fiafer3aess  in  hurr3dng  her  to  produce,  and  she  had  to  say 
BhstgfMMas  not  a  nimble  writer.  His  flattering  impatience 
3^torv$^iifi»is.  He  admired  her  work,  yet  he  did  his  utmost 
B&BTfiate  dtiHittle  admirable.  His  literary  taste  was  not  that 
-^Isyfewftgva^rjbHar  Ehodes,  to  whom  she  could  read  her  chap- 
,tfl*lv«|^e0fldiagiTt©..take  counsel  upon  them  while  drinking 
^&aetli^iW^.96hJ5fmii«pecited  him  of  prosaically  wishing  her 
4qoPmk&  Mm^%bMd^lM>hgh  her  exchequer  was  beginning 
^okmiM  tJbe^f^fedioafldi^dtlrBi  quthor's  lofty  mind  disdained 
Mtm'{ao^i(|iO<^8[)  teibftrfiKdiaisedl^  possibly,  for  a  failing  pro- 
-i^tfee  mi^ys^9  [SteienHQu^tteTfild  obstacles  to  imaginative 
•fi§^j«)^tiQiJ^  o^^h,(tto  geisdiflnxjifeJr  hand  she  would  fall  into 
i^3^[mv^ngH  hmthc^-dBiMTdSt  to  muse,  and  not  on  the 
Mfej^toj  f^keifekpfewiiefjei^  aMlnight,  was  drowsy  by  day, 
I^|]^gs^'^e;c^nijaic(|v^ftfea^0rthex[)or  animating  friends.  Eed- 
a^^^'sjrt%€|^y>itc)|^tdtorAaipublish  was  particularly  annoy- 
^gi-^Mri)^d4^iik(^tiigti^^Y  -^The  Young  Minister  of  State 
^^li  Ij^^(:fe|e]|i3gip'j^je(i»fhja3)fehe  retained  the  work  to  brood 
^)M??ifife)  i#&,  T5#^5i^ipt^ages,  perfect  it.  Her  musings 
^fibjfl^ljJd^grito'logU^idrf.ilrhat  work,  never  printed;  they 
.Wt^MbS^jst^-^^^e^sf  soma  memory,  leaving  a  distaste  for 
l^rprfi^i^r  \j^^;dW^ef,C^i^iviice;  far  more  poetical  than  the 
!^t^§§d^Xig,T)im\^^Yi^'^\mon  vbf  Arthur  Ehodes;  and  the 
,^^^d5ji^s,^i(=jrj$fj|jwaf^fjeo^0deled  on  a  prima  donna  she 
]^iro^'»i7/ihepmnme^i^mmot  Henry  Wilmers,  after  hear- 
m&?^^W'^ihh^M  CJfesfdfSqEainer's  quaint  passion  for  the 
S?fTO*lfo^dii§^i^A)*ft(i;lieiwx)man.  Diana  had  courted  her, 
sjWij^  aift^iiflgd; jiitfB.  ?,fIJ)h^i(|acture  she  was  drawing  of  the 
amiable  and  gifted  Italian,  of  her  villain  Eoumanian  husband, 
^R^;1):fe^€fi^e<Mlfetfi(f>fiy^l^imitw3ed,  devoted  Englishman,  was 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  211 

good  in  a  fashion;  but,  considering  the  theme,  she  had  reason- 
able apprehension  that  her  Cantatrice  would  not  repay  her  for 
the  time  and  labor  bestowed  on  it.  No  clever  transcripts  of 
the  dialogue  of  the  day  occurred;  no  hair-breadth  'scapes, 
perils  by  sea  and  land,  heroisms  of  the  hero,  fine  shrieks  of  the 
heroine;  no  set  scenes  of  catching  pathos  and  humor;  no  dis- 
tinguishable points  of  social  satire — equivalent  to  a  smacking 
of  the  public  on  the  chaps,  which  excites  it  to  grin  with  keen 
discernment  of  the  author's  intention.  She  did  not  appeal  to 
the  senses  nor  to  a  superficial  discernment.  So  she  had  the 
anticipatory  sense  of  its  failure;  and  she  wrote  her  best,  in 
perverseness.  Of  course,  she  wrote  slowly;  she  wrote  more 
and  more  realistically  of  the  characters  and  the  downright 
human  emotions,  less  of  the  wooden  supernumeraries  of  her 
story,  labeled  for  broad  guffaw  or  deluge  tears — the  grap- 
pling natural  links  between  our  public  and  an  author.  Her 
feelings  were  aloof.  They  flowed  at  a  hint  of  a  scene  of  The 
Young  Minister.  She  could  not  put  them  into  The  Canta- 
trice. And  Arthur  Rhodes  pronounced  this  work  poetical 
beyond  its  predecessors,  for  the  reason  that  the  chief  char- 
acters were  alive  and  the  reader  felt  their  pulses.  He  meant 
to  say,  they  were  poetical  inasmuch  as  they  were  creations. 

The  slow  progress  of  a  work  not  driven  by  the  author's 
feelings  necessitated  frequent  consultations  between  Debit 
and  Credit,  resulting  in  altercations,  recriminations,  discord 
of  the  yoked  and  divergent  couple.  To  restore  them  to  their 
proper  trot  in  harness,  Diana  reluctantly  went  to  her  pub- 
lisher for  an  advance  item  of  the  sum  she  was  to  receive,  and 
the  act  increased  her  distaste.  An  idea  came  that  she  would 
soon  cease  to  be  able  to  write  at  all.  What  then?  Perhaps 
by  selling  her  invested  money,  and  ultimately  The  Cross- 
ways,  she  would  have  enough  for  her  term  upon  earth. 
Necessarily  she  had  to  think  that  short,  in  order  to  reckon  it 
as  nearly  enough.  "I  am  sure,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  shall 
not  trouble  the  world  very  long."  A  strange  languor  beset 
her;  scarcely  melancholy,  for  she  conceived  the  cheerfulness 
of  life  and  added  to  it  in  company;  but  a  nervelessness,  as 
though  she  had  been  left  by  the  stream  on  the  banks,  and  saw 
beauty  and  pleasure  sweep  along  and  away,  while  the  sun 
that  primed  them  dried  her  veins.  At  this  time  she  was  gain- 
ing her  widest  reputation  for  brilliancy  of  wit.  Only  to  wel- 
come guests  were  her  evenings  ever  spent  at  home.    She  had 


212  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

no  intimate  understanding  of  the  deadly  wrestle  of  the  con- 
ventional woman  with  her  nature  which  she  was  undergoing 
below  the  surface.  Perplexities  she  acknowledged,  and  the 
prudence  of  guardedness.  "But  as  I  am  sure  not  to  live  very 
long  we  may  as  well  meet.'^  Her  meetings  with  Percy  Dacier 
were  therefore  hardly  shunned,  and  his  behavior  did  not  warn 
her  to  discountenance  them.  It  would  have  been  cruel  to 
e?:clude  him  from  her  select  little  dinners  of  eight.  Whit- 
monby,  Westlake,  Henr^;  Wilmers,  and  the  rest,  she  perhaps 
aiding,  schooled  him  in  the  conversational  art.  She  heard  it 
said  of  him,  that  the  courted  discarder  of  the  sex,  hitherto  a 
mere  politician,  was  wonderfully  humanized.  Lady  Pennon 
fell  to  talking  of  him  hopefully.  She  declared  him  to  be  one 
of  the  men  who  unfold  tardily,  and  only  await  the  mastering 
passion.  If  the  passion  had  come  it  was  controlled.  His  com- 
mand of  himself  melted  Diana.  How  could  she  forbid  his 
entry  to  the  houses  she  frequented?  She  was  glad  to  see  him. 
He  showed  his  pleasure  in  seeing  her.  Remembering  his  ten- 
tative indiscretion  on  those  foreign  sands,  she  reflected  that 
he  had  been  easily  checked;  and  the  like  was  not  to  be  said 
of  some  others.  Beautiful  women  in  her  position  provoke  an 
intemperateness  that  contrasts  touchingly  with  the  self- 
restraint  of  a  particular  admirer.  Her  "impassioned  Cale- 
donian" was  one  of  a  host,  to  speak  of  whom  and  their  fits 
of  lunacy  even  to  her  friend  Emma  was  repulsive.  She  bore 
with  them,  foiled  them,  passed  them,  and  recovered  her 
equanimity;  but  the  contrast  called  to  her  to  dwell  on  it,  the 
self-restraint  whispered  of  a  depth  of  passion 

She  was  shocked  at  herself  for  a  singular  tremble  she  ex- 
perienced, without  any  beating  of  the  heart,  one  day  that  the 
marriage  of  Percy  Dacier  and  Miss  Asper  was  at  last  definitely 
fixed.  Mary  Paynham  brought  her  the  news.  She  had  it 
from  a  lady  who  had  come  across  Miss  Asper  at  Lady  Wathin's 
assemblies,  and  considered  the  great  heiress  extraordinarily 
handsome. 

"A  golden  miracle!"  Diana  gave  her  words  to  say.  "Good 
looks  and  gold  together  are  rather  superhuman.  The  report 
may  be  this  time  true." 

]^ext  afternoon  the  card  of  Lady  Wathin  requested  Mrs. 
Warwick  to  grant  her  a  private  interview. 

Lady  Wathin  as  one  of  the  order  of  women  who  can  do 
anything  in  a  holy  cause,  advanced  toward  Mrs.  Warwick,  un- 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  213 

abashed  by  the  burden  of  her  mission,  and  spinally  prepared, 
behind  benevolent  smilings,  to  repay  dignity  of  mien  with  a 
similar  erectness  of  dignity.  They  touched  fingers  and  sat. 
The  preliminaries  to  the  matter  of  the  interview  were  brief 
between  ladies  physically  sensible  of  antagonism  and  mutually 
too  scornful  of  subterfuges  in  one  another's  presence  to  beat 
the  bush. 

Lady  Wathin  began.  "I  am,  you  are  aware,  Mrs.  Warwick, 
a  cousin  of  your  friend,  Lady  Dunstane." 

"You  come  to  me  on  business?''  Diana  said. 

"It  may  be  so  termed.  I  have  no  personal  interest  in  it. 
I  come  to  lay  certain  facts  before  you  which  I  think  you 
should  know.  We  think  it  better  that  an  acquaintance,  and 
one  of  your  sex,  should  state  the  case  to  you,  instead  of  having 
recourse  to  formal  intermediaries,  lawyers    .     .     ." 

"Lawyers?" 

"Well,  my  husband  is  a  lawyer,  it  is  true.  In  the  course  of 
his  professional  vocations  he  became  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Warwick.  We  have  latterly  seen  a  good  deal  of  him.  He  is, 
I  regret  to  say,  seriously  unwell." 

"I  have  heard  of  it." 

"He  has  no  female  relations,  it  appears.  He  needs  more 
care  than  he  can  receive  from  hirelings." 

"Are  you  empowered  by  him.  Lady  Wathin?" 

"I  am,  Mrs.  Warwick.  We  will  not  waste  time  in  apologies. 
He  is  most  anxious  for  a  reconciliation.  It  seems  to  Sir 
Cramborne  and  to  me  the  most  desirable  thing  for  all  parties 
concerned  if  you  can  be  induced  to  regard  it  in  that  light. 
Mr.  Warwick  may  or  may  not  live;  but  the  estrangement  is 
quite  undoubtedly  the  cause  of  his  illness.  I  touch  on  noth- 
ing connected  with  it.  I  simply  wish  that  you  should  not  be 
in  ignorance  of  his  proposal  and  his  condition." 

Diana  bowed  calmly.  "I  grieve  at  his  condition.  His  pro- 
posal has  already  been  made  and  replied  to." 

"Oh,  but,  Mrs.  Warwick,  an  immediate  and  decisive  refusal 
of  a  proposal  so  fraught  with  consequences     .     .     .     !" 

"Ah,  but.  Lady  Wathin,  you  are  now  out-stepping  the  limits 
prescribed  by  the  office  you  have  undertaken." 

"You  will  not  lend  ear  to  an  intercession?" 

"I  will  not." 

"Of  course,  Mrs.  Wai*wick,  it  is  not  for  me  to  hint  at  things 
that  lawyers  could  say  on  the  subject." 


214  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

"Your  forbearance  is  creditable,  Lady  Wathin." 

"Believe  me,  Mrs.  Warwick,  the  step  is — I  speak  in  my  bus- 
band's  name  as  well  as  my  own — strongly  to  be  advised." 

"If  I  hear  one  word  more  of  it  I  leave  the  country." 

"I  should  be  sorry  indeed  at  any  piece  of  rashness  depriv- 
ing your  numerous  friends  of  your  society.  We  have  re- 
cently become  acquainted  with  Mr.  Redworth^  and  I  know 
the  loss  you  would  be  to  them.  I  have  not  attempted  an  ap- 
peal to  your  feelings,  Mrs.  Warwick." 

"I  thank  you  warmly.  Lady  Wathin,  for  what  you  have  not 
done." 

The  aristocratic  airs  of  Mrs.  Warwick  were  annoying  to 
Lady  Wathin  when  she  considered  that  they  were  borrowed, 
and  that  a  pattern  morality  could  regard  the  woman  as  ostra- 
cised; nor  was  it  agreeable  to  be  looked  at  through  eye- 
lashes under  partially-lifted  brows.  She  had  come  to  appeal 
to  the  feelings  of  the  wife;  at  any  rate,  to  discover  if  she  had 
some,  and  was  better  than  a  wild  adventuress. 

"Our  life  below  is  short!"  she  said.  To  which  Diana  tacitly 
assented. 

"We  have  our  little  term,  Mrs.  Warwick.     It  is  soon  over." 

"On  the  other  hand,  the  platitudes  concerning  it  are 
eternal." 

Lady  Wathin  closed  her  eyes,  that  the  like  effect  might  be 
produced  on  her  ears.  "Ah!  they  are  the  truths.  But  it  is 
not  my  business  to  preach.  Permit  me  to  say  that  I  feel 
deeply  for  your  husband." 

"I  am  glad  of  Mr.  Warwick's  having  friends;  and  they  are 
many,  I  hope." 

"They  cannot  behold  him  perishing  without  an  effort  on 
his  behalf." 

A  chasm  of  silence  intervened.  Wifely  pity  was  not 
sounded  in  it. 

"He  will  question  me,  Mrs.  Warwick." 

"You  can  report  to  him  the  heads  of  our  conversation.  Lady 
Wathin." 

"Would  you — it  is  your  husband's  most  earnest  wish;  and 
our  house  is  open  to  his  wife  and  to  him  for  the  purpose; 
and  it  seems  to  lis  that  .  .  .  indeed  it  might  avert  a 
catastrophe  you  would  necessarily  deplore — would  you  con- 
sent to  meet  him  at  my  house?" 

"It  has  already  been  asked,  Lady  Wathin,  and  refused." 


DIANiA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  215 

'^ut  at  my  house — under  our  auspices!" 

Diana  glanced  at  the  clock.    ":N'owhere." 

"Is  it  not — pardon  me — a  vriie's  duty,  Mrs.  Warwick,  at 
least  to  listen?" 

"Lady  Wathin,  I  have  listened  to  you." 

"In  the  case  of  his  extreme  generosity  so  putting  it,  for 
the  present,  Mrs.  Warwick,  that  he  asks  only  to  be  heard 
personally  by  his  wife!    It  may  preclude  so  much." 

Diana  felt  a  hot  wind  across  her  skin. 

She  smiled  and  said:  "Let  me  thank  you  for  bringing  to 
an  end  a  mission  that  must  have  been  unpleasant  to  you." 

"But  you  will  meditate  on  it,  Mrs.  Warwick,  will  you  not? 
Give  me  that  assurance!" 

"I  shall  not  forget  it,"  said  Diana. 

Again  the  ladies  touched  fingers,  with  an  interchange  of 
the  social  grimace  of  cordiality.  A  few  words  of  compassion 
for  poor  Lady  Dunstane's  invalided  state  covered  Lady 
Wathin's  retreat. 

She  left,  it  struck  her  ruffled  sentiments,  an  icy  libertine, 
whom  any  husband  caring  for  his  dignity  and  comfort  was 
well  rid  of;  and  if  only  she  could  have  contrived  allusively 
to  bring  in  the  name  of  Mr.  Percy  Dacier — just  to  show  these 
arrant  coquettes,  or  worse,  that  they  were  not  quite  so  privi- 
leged to  pursue  their  intrigues  obscurely  as  they  imagined — 
it  would  have  soothed  her  exasperation. 

She  left  a  woman  the  prey  of  panic. 

Diana  thought  of  Emma  and  Red  worth,  and  of  their  foolish 
interposition  to  save  her  character  and  keep  her  boimd.  She 
might  now  have  been  free!  The  struggle  with  her  manacles 
reduced  her  to  a  state  of  rebelliousness,  from  which  issued 
vivid  illuminations  of  the  one  means  of  certain  escape:  an 
abhorrent  hissing  cavern  that  led  to  a  place  named  Liberty, 
her  refuge,  but  a  hectic  place. 

Unable  to  write,  hating  the  house  which  held  her  a  fixed 
mark  for  these  attacks,  she  had  an  idea  of  flying  straight  to 
her  beloved  Lugano  lake,  and  there  hiding,  abandoning  her 
friends,  casting  off  the  slave's  name  she  bore,  and  living  free 
in  spirit.  She  went  so  far  as  to  reckon  the  cost  of  a  small 
household  there,  and  justify  the  violent  step  by  an  exposition 
of  retrenchment  upon  her  large  London  expenditure.  She 
had  but  to  say  farewell  to  Emma,  no  other  tie  to  cut!  One 
morning  on  the  Salvatore  heights  would  wash  her  clear  of 
the  webs  defacing  and  entangling  her. 


216  DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXiy. 
INDICATES  A  SOUL  PREPARED  FOR  DESPERATION. 

The  month  was  August,  four  days  before  the  closing  of 
Parliament,  and  Diana  fancied  it  good  for  Arthur  Rhodes 
to  run  down  with  her  to  Copsley.  He  came  to  her  invitation 
joyfully,  reminding  her  of  Lady  Dunstane's  wish  to  hear  some 
chapters  of  "The  Cantatrice'^  and  the  MS.  was  packed. 
They  started,  taking  rail  and  fly,  and  winding  up  the  dis- 
tance on  foot.  August  is  the  month  of  sober  maturity  and 
majestic  foliage,  songless,  but  a  crowned  and  royal-robed 
queenly  month;  and  the  youngster's  appreciation  of  the 
homely  scenery  refreshed  Diana;  his  delight  in  being  with 
her  was  also  pleasant.  She  had  no  wish  to  exchange  him 
for  another;  and  that  was  a  strengthening  thought. 

At  Copsley  the  arrival  of  their  luggage  had  prepared  the 
welcome.  Warm  though  it  was,  Diana  perceived  a  change 
in  Emma,  an  unwonted  reserve,  a  doubtfulness  of  her  eyes, 
in  spite  of  tenderness;  and  thus  thrown  back  on  herself, 
thinking  that,  if  she  had  followed  her  own  counsel  (as  she 
called  her  impulse)  in  old  days,  there  would  have  been  no 
such  present  misery,  she  at  once,  and  unconsciously,  assumed 
a  guarded  look.  Based  on  her  knowledge  of  her  honest 
footing  it  was  a  little  defiant.  Secretly  in  her  bosom  it  was 
sharpened  to  a  slight  hostility  by  the  knowledge  that  her 
mind  had  been  straying.  The  guilt  and  the  innocence  com- 
bined to  clothe  her  in  mail — the  innocence  being  positive,  the 
guilt  so  vapory.  But  she  was  armed  only  if  necessary,  and 
there  was  no  requirement  for  armor.  Emma  did  not 
question  at  all.  She  saw  the  alteration  in  her  Tony:  she 
was  too  full  of  the  tragic  apprehensiveness  overmastering 
her  to  speak  of  trifles.  She  had  never  confided  to  Tony  the 
exact  nature  and  the  growth  of  her  malady,  thinking  it  mor- 
tal, and  fearing  to  alarm  her  dearest. 

A  portion  of  the  manuscript  was  read  out  by  Arthur  Rhodes 
in  the  evening;  the  remainder  next  morning.  Red  worth 
perceptibly  was  the  model  of  the  English  hero;  and,  as  to 
his  person,  no  friend  could  complain  of  the  sketch:  his  clear- 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  217 

eyed  heartiness,  manliness,  wholesomeness — a  word  of  Lady 
Dunstane's  regarding  him — and  his  handsome  braced  figure, 
were  well  painted.  Emma  forgave  the  insistance  on  a  cer- 
tain bluntness  of  the  nose  in  consideration  of  the  fond  limn- 
ing of  his  honest  and  expressive  eyes,  and  the  "light  on  his 
temples,"  which  they  had  noticed  together.  She  could  not  so 
easily  forgive  the  realistic  picture  of  the  man:  an  exaggera- 
tion, she  thought,  of  small  foibles  that,  even  if  they  existed, 
should  not  have  been  stressed.  The  turn  for  "calculating" 
was  shown  up  ridiculously;  Mr.  Cuthbert  Bering  was  calcu- 
lating in  his  impassioned  moods  as  well  as  in  his  cold.  His 
head  was  a  long  division  of  ciphers.  He  had  statistics  for 
spectacles,  and  beheld  the  world  through  them,  and  the  mis- 
tress he  worshiped. 

"I  see,''  said  Emma,  during  a  pause,  "he  is  a  Saxon.  You 
still  affect  to  have  the  race  en  grippe,  Tony." 

"I  give  him  every  credit  for  what  he  is,"  Diana  replied. 
"I  admire  the  finer  qualities  of  the  race  as  much  as  anyone. 
You  want  to  have  them  presented  to  3^ou  in  enamel,  Emmy." 

But  the  worst  was  an  indication  that  the  mania  for  calcu- 
lating in  and  out  of  season  would  lead  to  the  catastrophe 
destructive  of  his  happiness.  Emma  could  not  bear  that. 
Without  asking  herself  whether  it  could  be  possible  that  Tony 
knew  the  secret,  or  whether  she  would  have  laid  it  bare,  her 
sympathy  for  Eed worth  revolted  at  the  exposure.  She  was 
chilled.  She  let  it  pass;  she  merely  said:  "I  like  the  writ- 
ing." 

Diana  understood  that  her  story  was  condemned. 

She  put  on  her  robes  of  philosophy  to  cloak  discourage- 
ment.   "I  am  glad  the  writing  pleases  you." 

"The  characters  are  as  true  as  life!"  cried  Arthur  Ehodes. 
"The  cantatrice  drinking  porter  from  the  pewter  at  the  slips 
after  harrowing  the  hearts  of  her  audience  is  dearer  to  me 
than  if  she  had  tottered  to  a  sofa  declining  sustenance  and 
because  her  creatrix  has  infused  such  blood  of  life  into  her 
that  you  accept  naturally  whatever  she  does.  She  was  ex- 
hausted, and  required  the  porter,  like  a  laborer  in  the  corn- 
field." 

Emma  looked  at  him  and  perceived  the  poet  swamped  by 
the  admirer.  Taken  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Cuthbert  Der- 
ing's  frenzy  for  calculating,  she  disliked  the  incident  of  the 
porter  and  the  pewter. 


218  DIANA    OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

*^hile  the  cantatrice  swallowed  her  draught  I  suppose 
Mr.  Bering  counted  the  cost?"  she  said. 

^'It  really  might  he  hinted/'  said  Diana. 

The  discussion  closed  with  the  accustomed  pro  and  con 
upon  the  wart  of  Cromwell's  nose — Eealism  rejoicing  in  it, 
Idealism  objecting. 

Arthur  Rhodes  was  bidden  to  stretch  his  legs  on  a  walk 
along  the  heights  in  the  afternoon,  and  Emma  was  further 
vexed  by  hearing  Tony  complain  of  Redworth's  treatment 
of  the  lad,  whom  he  would  not  assist  to  any  of  the  snug  little 
posts  he  was  notoriously  able  to  dispense. 

"He  has  talked  of  Mr.  Rhodes  to  me,"  said  Emma.  "He 
thinks  the  profession  of  literature  a  delusion,  and  doubts  the 
wisdom  of  having  poets  for  clerks." 

"John-Bullish!"  Diana  exclaimed.  "He  speaks  contemptu- 
ously of  the  poor  boy." 

"Only  inasmuch  as  the  foolishness  of  the  young  man  in 
throwing  up  the  law  provokes  his  practical  mind  to  speak." 

"He  might  take  my  word  for  the  ^young  man's'  ability.  I 
want  him  to  have  the  means  of  living,  that  he  may  write. 
He  has  genius." 

"He  may  have  it.  I  like  him,  and  have  said  so.  If  he 
were  to  go  back  to  his  law-stool  I  have  no  doubt  that  Red- 
worth  would  manage  to  help  him." 

"And  make  a  worthy  ancient  Braddock  of  a  youth  of  splen- 
did promise!    Have  I  sketched  him  too  Saxon?" 

"It  is  the  lens,  and  not  the  tribe,  Tony." 

"The  Cantatrice"  was  not  alluded  to  any  more;  but  Emma's 
disapproval  blocked  the  current  of  composition,  already  sub- 
ject to  chokings  in  the  brain  of  the  author.  Diana  stayed 
three  days  at  Copsley,  one  longer  than  she  had  intended,  so 
that  Arthur  Rhodes  might  have  his  fill  of  country  air. 

"I  would  keep  him,  but  I  should  be  no  companion  for  him," 
Emma  said. 

"I  suspect  the  gallant  squire  is  only  to  be  satisfied  by  land- 
ing me  safely,"  said  Diana,  and  that  small  remark  grated, 
though  Emma  saw  the  simple  meaning.  When  they  parted 
she  kissed  her  Tony  many  times.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes.  It 
seemed  to  Diana  that  she  was  anxious  to  make  amends  for 
the  fit  of  alienation,  and  she  was  kissed  in  return  warmly, 
quite  forgiven,  notwithstanding  the  deadly  blank  she  had 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  219 

caused  in  the  imagination  of  the  writer  for  pay,  distracted  by 
the  squabbles  of  Debit  and  Credit. 

Diana  chatted  spiritedly  to  young  Ehodes  on  their  drive 
to  the  train.  She  was  profoundly  discouraged  by  Emma's 
disapproval  of  her  work.  It  wanted  but  that  one  drop  to 
make  a  recurrence  to  the  work  impossible.  There  it  must 
lie!  And  what  of  the  aspects  of  her  household?  Perhaps, 
after  all,  the  Eedworths  of  the  world  are  right,  and  litera- 
ture as  a  profession  is  a  delusive  pursuit.  She  did  not  assent 
to  it  without  hostility  to  the  world's  Redworths.  "They 
have  no  sensitiveness — we  have  too  much.  We  are  made  of 
bubbles  that  a  wind  will  burst,  and,  as  the  wind  is  always 
blowing,  your  practical  Redworths  have  their  crow  of  us." 

She  suggested  advice  to  Arthur  Rhodes  upon  the  prudence 
of  his  resuming  the  yoke  of  the  law. 

He  laughed  at  such  a  notion,  saying  that  he  had  some 
expectations  of  money  to  come. 

"But  I  fear,"  said  he,  "that  Lady  Dunstane  is  very,  very 
ill.    She  begged  me  to  keep  her  informed  of  your  address." 

Diana  told  him  he  was  one  of  those  who  should  know  it 
whithersoever  she  went.  She  spoke  impulsively,  her  senti- 
ments of  friendliness  for  the  youth  being  temporarily  bright- 
ened by  the  strangeness  of  Emma's  conduct  in  deputing  it  to 
him  to  fulfill  a  duty  she  had  never  omitted.  "What  can  she 
think  I  am  going  to  do  ?" 

On  her  table  at  home  lay  a  letter  from  Mr.  Warwick.  She 
read  it  hastily  in  the  presence  of  Arthur  Rhodes,  ha^dng  at 
a  glance  at  the  handwriting  anticipated  the  proposition  it  con- 
tained and  the  official  phrasing. 

Her  gallant  squire  was  invited  to  dine  with  her  that  even- 
ing, costume  excused. 

They  conversed  of  literature  as  a  profession,  of  poets  dead 
and  living,  of  politics  which  he  abhorred  and  shied  at,  and 
of  his  prospects.  He  wrote  many  rejected  pages,  enjoyed  an 
income  of  eighty  pounds  per  annum,  and  eked  out  a  sub- 
sistence upon  the  modest  sum  his  pen  procured  him;  a  sum 
extremely  insignificant;  but  great  nature  was  his  own,  the 
world  was  tributary  to  him,  the  future  his  bejeweled  and 
expectant  bride.  Diana  envied  his  youthfulness.  Nothing 
is  more  enviable,  nothing  richer  to  the  mind,  than  the  aspect 
of  a  cheerful  poverty.  How  much  nobler  it  was,  contrasted 
with  Redworth's  amassing  of  wealth! 


220  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

When  alone,  she  went  to  her  hedroom  and  tried  to  write, 
tried  to  sleep.     Mr.  Warwick's  letter  was    looked    at.     It 
seemed  to  indicate  a  threat;   hut  for  the  moment  it  did  not 
disturb  her  so  much  as  the  review  of  her  moral  prostration. 
She  -wTote  some  lines  to  her  lawyers,  quoting  one  of  Mr. 
Warwick's  sentences.     That  done,  his  letter  was  dismissed. 
Her   intolerable   languor  became    alternately    a    defeating 
drowsiness  and  a  fever.     She    succeeded    in    the    effort    to 
smother  the  absolute  cause:   it  was  not  suffered  to  show  a 
front,  at  the  cost  of  her  knowledge  of  a  practiced  self-decep- 
tion.    "I  wonder  whether  the  world  is  as  bad  as  a  certain 
class  of  writers  tell  us?"  she  sighed  in  weariness,  and  mused 
on  their  soundings  and  probings  of  poor  humanity,  which  the 
world  accepts  for  the  very  bottom-truth  if  their  dredge  brings 
up  sheer  refuse  of  the  abominable.    The  world  imagines  those 
to  be  at  our  nature's  depths  who  are  impudent  enough  to 
expose  its  muddy  shallows.     She  was  in  the  mood  for  such 
a  kind  of  writing:   she  could  have  started  on  it  at  once,  but 
that  the  theme  was  wanting;  and  it  may  count  on  popularity, 
a  great  repute  for  penetration.    It  is  true  of  its  kind,  though 
the  dredging  of  nature  is  the  miry  form  of  art.     When  it 
flourishes  we  may  be  assured  we  have  been  over-enameling 
the  higher  forms.     She  felt,  and  shuddered  to  feel,  that  she 
could  draw  from  dark  stores.    Hitherto  in  her  works  it  had 
been  a  triumph  of  the  good.     They  revealed  a  gaping  defi- 
ciency of  the  subtle  insight  she  now  possessed.     "Exhibit 
humanity  as  it  is,  wallowing,  sensual,  wicked,  behind  the 
mask,"  a  voice  called  to  her;  she  was  allured  by  the  con- 
templation of  the  wide-mouthed  old  dragon  Ego,  whose  por- 
trait, decently  painted,  establishes  an  instant  touch  of  ex- 
change between  author  and  public,  the  latter  detected  and 
confessing.    Next  to  the  pantomime  of  Humor  and  Pathos, 
a  cynical  surgical  knife  at  the  human  bosom  seems  the  surest 
talisman  for  this  agreeable  exchange;    and  she  could  cut. 
She  gave  herself  a  taste  of  her  powers.     She  cut  at  herself 
mercilessly,  and  had  to  bandage  the  wound  in  a  hurry  to 
keep  in  life. 

Metaphors  were  her  refuge.  Metaphorically  she  could 
allow  her  mind  to  distinguish  the  struggle  she  was  under- 
going, sinking  under  it.  The  banished  of  Eden  had  to  put 
on  metaphors,  and  the  common  use  of  them  has  helped 
largely  to  civilize  us.    The  sluggish  in  intellect  detest  them. 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  221 

but  our  civilization  is  not  much  indebted  to  that  major  fac- 
tion. Especially  are  they  needed  by  the  pedestaled  woman 
in  her  conflict  with  the  natural.  Diana  saw  herself  through 
the  haze  she  conjured  up.  *'Am  I  worse  than  other  women?" 
was  a  piercing  twi-thought.  Worse,  would  be  hideous  isola- 
tion. The  not  worse,  abased  her  sex.  She  could  afford  to 
say  that  the  world  was  bad:   not  that  women  were. 

Sinking  deeper,  an  anguish  of  humiliation  smote  her  to  a 
sense  of  drowning.  For  what  if  the  poetic  ecstasy  on  her 
Salvatore  heights  had  not  been  of  origin  divine?  had  sprung 
from  other  than  spiritual  founts?  had  sprung  from  the  red- 
dened sources  she  was  compelled  to  conceal?  Could  it  be? 
She  would  not  believe  it.  But  there  was  matter  to  clip  her 
wings,  quench  her  light,  in  the  doubt. 

She  fell  asleep  like  the  wrecked  flung  ashore. 

Danvers  entered  her  room  at  an  early  hour  for  London  to 
inform  her  that  Mr.  Percy  Dacier  was  below,  and  begged 
permission  to  wait. 

Diana  gave  orders  for  breakfast  to  be  proposed  to  him. 
She  lay  staring  at  the  wall  until  it  became  too  visibly  a 
reflection  of  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ONCE  MORE  THE  CROSSWAYS  AND  A  CHANGE  OF 
TURNINGS. 

The  suspicion  of  his  having  come  to  impart  the  news  of 
his  proximate  marriage  ultimately  endowed  her  with  sovereign 
calmness.  She  had  need  to  think  it,  and  she  did.  Tea  was 
brought  to  her  while  she  dressed;  she  descended  the  stairs  re- 
volving phrases  of  happy  congratulation  and  the  world's  ordi- 
nary epigrams  upon  the  marriage-tie,  neatly  mixed. 

They  read  in  one  another's  faces  a  different  meaning  from 
the  empty  words  of  excuse  and  welcome.  Dacier's  expressed 
the  buckling  of  a  strong  set  purpose;  but,  grieved  by  the  look 
of  her  eyes,  he  wasted  a  moment  to  say:  "You  have  not  slept. 
You  have  heard     .     .     .     ?" 

"What?"  said  she,  trying  to  speculate;  and  that  was  a  suf- 
ficient answer. 


222  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

"I  hadn't  the  courage  to  call  last  night;  I  passed  the 
windows.    Give  me  your  hand,  I  beg." 

She  gave  her  hand  in  wonderment,  and  more  wonderingly 
felt  it  squeezed.  Her  heart  began  the  hammer-thump.  She 
spoke  an  unintelligible  something;  saw  herself  melting  away 
to  utter  weakness — pride,  reserve,  simple  prudence,  all  going; 
crumbled  ruins  where  had  stood  a  fortress  imposing  to  men. 
Was  it  love?    Her  heart  thumped  shiveringly. 

He  kept  her  hand,  indifferent  to  the  gentle  tension. 

"This  is  the  point:  I  cannot  live  without  you.  I  have  gone 
on.     .     .     .     Who  was  here  last  night?    Forgive  me." 

"You  know  Arthur  Rhodes?" 

"I  saw  him  leave  the  door  at  eleven.  Why  do  you  torture 
me?  There's  no  time  to  lose  now.  You  will  be  claimed. 
Come,  and  let  us  two  cut  the  knot.  It  is  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  for  me — the  only  thing.  Be  brave!  I  have  your 
hand.  Give  it  for  good,  and  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  play  the 
sex.  Be  yourself.  Dear  soul  of  a  woman!  I  never  saw  the 
soul  in  one  but  in  you.  I  have  waited;  nothing  but  the  dread 
of  losing  you  sets  me  speaking  now.  And  for  you  to  be  sac- 
rificed a  second  time,  to  that !    Oh,  no!    You  know  you 

can  trust  me.  On  my  honor,  I  take  breath  from  you.  You 
are  my  better  in  everything — guide,  goddess,  dearest  heart! 
Trust  me;  make  me  master  of  your  fate." 

"But  my  friend!"  the  murmur  hung  in  her  throat.  He 
was  marvelously  transformed;  he  allowed  no  space  for  the 
arts  of  defense  and  evasion. 

"I  wish  I  had  the  trick  of  courting.  There's  not  time;  and 
I'm  a  simpleton  at  the  game.  We  can  start  this  evening. 
Once  away,  we  leave  it  to  them  to  settle  the  matter,  and  then 
you  are  free,  and  mine  to  the  death." 

"But  speak,  speak!    What  is  it?"  Diana  said. 

"That,  if  we  delay,  I'm  in  danger  of  losing  you  altogether." 

Her  eyes  lightened:  "You  mean  that  you  have  heard  he 
has  determined     .     .     .     ?" 

"There's  a  process  of  the  law.  But  stop  it.  Just  this  one 
step,  and  it  ends.  Whether  intended  or  not,  it  hangs  over  you, 
and  you  will  be  perpetually  tormented.  Why  waste  your 
whole  youth?  and  mine  as  well!  For  I  am  bound  to  you  as 
much  as  if  we  had  stood  at  the  altar,  where  we  will  stand  to- 
gether the  instant  you  are  free." 

"But  where  have  you  heard     .     .     .     ?" 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  223 

"From  an  intimate  friend.  I  will  tell  you — sufficiently  in- 
timate— from  Lady  Wathin.  ISTothing  of  a  friend,  but  I  see 
this  woman  at  times.  She  chose  to  speak  of  it  to  me — it 
doesn't  matter  why.  She  is  in  his  confidence,  and  pitched  me 
a  -whimpering  tale.  Let  those  people  chatter.  But  it's  exactly 
for  those  people  that  you  are  hanging  in  chains,  all  your 
youth  shrivelling.  Let  them  shout  their  worst!  It's  the  bark 
of  a  day;  and  you  won't  hear  it;  half -a-y ear,  and  it  will  be 
over,  and  I  shall  bring  you  back — the  husband  of  the  noblest 
bride  in  Christendom!    You  don't  mistrust  me?" 

"It  is  not  that,"  said  she.  "But  now  drop  my  hand.  I  am 
imprisoned." 

"It's  asking  too  much.  I've  lost  you  too  many  times.  I 
have  the  hand  and  I  keep  it.  I  take  nothing  but  the  hand. 
It's  the  hand  I  want.  I  give  you  mine.  I  love  you.  Now  I 
know  what  love  is!  and  the  word  carries  nothing  of  its  weight. 
Tell  me  you  do  not  doubt  my  honor." 

"Not  at  all.  But  be  rational.  I  must  think,  and  I  cannot 
while  you  keep  my  hand." 

He  kissed  it.    "I  keep  my  own  against  the  world." 

A  cry  of  rebuke  swelled  to  her  lips  at  his  conqueror's  tone. 
It  was  not  uttered,  for  directness  was  in  his  character  and  his 
wooing  loyal — save  far  bitter  circumstances,  delicious  to  hear; 
and  so  narrow  was  the  ring  he  had  wound  about  her  senses 
that  her  loathing  of  the  circumstances  pushed  her  to  acknowl- 
edge within  her  bell  of  a  heart  her  love  for  him. 

He  was  luckless  enough  to  say:    "Diana!" 

It  rang  horridly  of  her  husband.  She  drew  her  hand  to 
loosen  it,  with  repulsing  brows.    "Not  that  name!" 

Dacier  was  too  full  of  his  honest  advocacy  of  the  passionate 
lover  to  take  a  rebuff.  There  lay  his  unconscious  mastery, 
where  the  common  arts  of  attack  would  have  tripped  him  with 
a  quick-witted  woman,  and  where  a  man  of  passion,  not  al- 
lowing her  to  succumb  in  dignity,  would  have  alarmed  her  to 
the  breaking  lose  from  him. 

"Lady  Dunstane  calls  you  Tony." 

"She  is  my  dearest  and  oldest  friend." 

"You  and  I  don't  count  by  years.  You  are  the  dearest  to 
me  on  earth,  Tony!" 

She  debated  as  to  forbidding  that  name. 

The  moment's  pause  wrapped  her  in  a  mental  hurricane, 


224  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

out  of  which  she  came  with  a  heart  stopped,  her  olive  cheeks 
ashen-hued.    She  had  seen  that  the  step  was  possible. 

^^Oh!  Percy,  Percy,  are  we  mad?'' 

"Not  mad.  We  take  what  is  ours.  Tell  me,  have  I  ever, 
ever  disrespected  you?  You  were  sacred  to  me;  and  you  are, 
though  now  the  change  has  come.  Look  back  on  it — ^it  is 
time  lost,  years  that  are  dust.  But  look  forward,  and  you  can- 
not imagine  our  separation.  What  I  propose  is  plain  sense 
for  us  two.  Since  Eovio  I  have  been  at  your  feet.  Have  I 
not  some  just  claim  for  recompense?    Tell  me!   Tony!" 

The  sweetness  of  the  secret  name,  the  privileged  name,  in 
his  mouth  stole  through  her  blood,  melting  resistance. 

She  had  consented.  The  swarthy  flaming  of  her  face 
avowed  it  even  more  than  the  surrender  of  her  hand.  He 
gained  much  by  claiming  little:  he  respected  her,  gave  her  no 
touches  of  fright  and  shame;  and  it  was  her  glory  to  fall  with 
pride.  An  attempt  at  a  caress  would  have  awakened  her  view 
of  the  whitherward:  but  she  was  treated  as  a  sovereign  lady 
rationally  advised. 

"Is  it  since  Eovio,  Percy?" 

"Since  the  morning  when  you  refused  me  one  little  flower." 

"If  I  had  given  it  you  might  have  been  saved!" 

"I  fancy  I  was  doomed  from  the  beginning." 

"I  was  worth  a  thought?" 

'^"orth  a  life!  worth  ten  thousand!" 

"You  have  reckoned  it  all  like  a  sane  man: — ^family,  posi- 
tion, the  world,  the  scandal?" 

"AH.  I  have  long  known  that  you  were  the  mate  for  me. 
You  have  to  weather  a  gale,  Tony.  It  won't  last.  My  dear- 
est! it  won't  last  many  months.  I  regret  the  trial  for  you, 
but  I  shall  be  with  you,  burning  for  the  day  to  reinstate  you 
and  show  you  the  queen  you  are." 

"Yes,  we  two  can  have  no  covert  dealings,  Percy,"  said 
Diana.  They  would  be  hateful — baseness!  Eejecting  any 
baseness,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  stood  in  some  brightness. 
The  light  was  of  a  lurid  sort.  She  called  on  her  heart  to 
glory  in  it  as  the  light  of  tried  love,  the  love  that  defied  the 
world.  Her  heart  rose.  She  and  he  would  at  a  single  step 
give  proof  of  their  love  for  one  another;  and  this  kingdom 
of  love — ^how  different  from  her  recent  craven  languors! — this 
kingdom  awaited  her,  was  hers  for  one  word;  and,  beset  with 
the  oceans  of  enemies,  it  was  unassailable.    If  only  they  were 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  225 

true  to  the  love  they  vowed  no  human  force  could  subvert 
it:  and  she  doubted  him  as  little  as  of  herself.  This  new 
kingdom  of  love,  never  entered  by  her,  acclaiming  her,  was 
well  nigh  unimaginable,  in  spite  of  the  many  hooded  mes- 
sengers it  had  despatched  to  her  of  late.  She  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  it  had  come. 

"But  see  me  as  I  am,"  she  said;  she  faltered  it  through  her 
direct  gaze  on  him. 

"With  chains  to  strike  off?  Certainly;  it  is  done,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"Eather  heavier  than  those  of  the  slave-market.  I  am  the 
deadest  of  burdens.  It  means  that  your  enemies,  personal — if 
you  have  any,  and  political — you  have  numbers,  will  raise  a 
cry.  .  .  .  Realize  it.  You  may  still  be  my  friend.  I  for- 
give the  bit  of  wildness." 

She  provoked  a  renewed  kissing  of  her  hand;  for  magnan- 
imity in  love  is  an  overflowing  danger;  and  when  he  said — 
"The  burden  you  have  to  bear  outweighs  mine  out  of  all  com- 
parison. What  is  it  to  a  man — a  public  man  or  not!  The 
woman  is  always  the  victim.  That's  why  I  have  held  my- 
self in  so  long" — her  strung  flame  softened.  She  half  yielded 
to  the  tug  on  her  arm. 

"Is  there  no  talking  for  us  without  foolishness?"  she  mur- 
mured. The  foolishness  had  wafted  her  to  sea,  far  from  sight 
of  land.  "Now  sit,  and  speak  soberly.  Discuss  the  mat- 
ter. Yes,  my  hand,  but  I  must  have  my  wits.  Leave  me  free 
to  use  them  till  we  choose  our  path.  Let  it  be  the  brains  be- 
tween us,  as  far  as  it  can.  You  ask  me  to  join  my  fate  to 
yours.  It  signifies  a  sharp  battle  for  you,  dear  friend;  per- 
haps the  blighting  of  the  most  promising  life  in  England.  One 
question  is.  Can  I  countervail  the  burden  I  shall  be  by  such 
help  to  you  as  I  can  afford?  Burden  is  no  word — I  rake  up 
a  buried  fever.  I  have  partially  lived  it  down,  and  instantly 
I  am  covered  with  spots.  The  old  false  charges  and  this 
plain  offense  make  a  monster  of  me." 

"And  meanwhile  you  are  at  the  disposal  of  the  man  who 
falsely  charged  you,  and  armed  the  world  against  you,"  said 
Dacier. 

"I  can  fly.    The  world  is  wide." 

"Time  slips.  Your  youth  is  wasted.  If  you  escape  the 
man  he  will  have  triumphed  in  keeping  you  from  me.  And 
I  thirst  for  you;   I  look  to  you  for  aid  and  counsel;   I  want 

15 


/v 


226     '  DIANA    OF  THE   CROSSWAYa 

my  mate.  You  have  not  to  be  told  how  you  inspire  me.  I 
am  really  less  than  half  myself  without  you.  If  I  am  to  do 
anything  in  the  world  it  must  be  with  your  aid — ^you  beside 
me.  Our  hands  are  joined:  one  leap!  Do  you  not  see  that 
after  .  .  .  well,  it  cannot  be  friendship.  It  imposes 
rather  more  on  me  than  I  can  bear.  You  are  not  the  woman 
to  trifle;  nor  1,  Tony,  the  man  for  it  with  a  woman  like  you. 
You  are  my  spring  of  wisdom.  You  interdict  me  altogether 
— can  you? — or  we  unite  our  fates,  like  these  hands  now. 
Try  to  get  yours  away!'' 

Her  effort  ended  in  a  pressure.  Eesistance,  nay,  to  hesi- 
tate at  the  joining  of  her  life  with  his  after  her  submission 
to  what  was  a  scorching  fire  in  memory,  though  it  was  less 
than  an  embrace,  accused  her  of  worse  than  foolishness. 

"Well,  then,''  said  she,  "wait  three  days.  Deliberate.  Oh! 
try  to  know  yourself,  for  your  clear  reason  to  guide  you.  Let 
us  be  something  better  than  the  crowd  abusing  us,  not  sim- 
ple creatures  of  impulse — as  we  choose  to  call  the  animal. 
What  if  we  had  to  confess  that  we  took  to  our  heels  the  mo- 
ment the  idea  struck  us!  Three  days.  We  may  then  pretend 
to  a  philosophical  resolve.  Then  come  to  me:  or  write  to 
me." 

"How  long  is  it  since  the  old  Rovio  morning,  Tony?" 

"An  age." 

"Date  my  deliberations  from  that  day." 

The  thought  of  hers  having  to  be  dated  possibly  from  an 
earlier  day  robbed  her  of  her  summit  of  feminine  isolation,  and 
she  trembled,  chilled,  and  flushed;  she  lost  all  anchorage. 

'So  it  must  be  to-morrow,"  said  he,  reading  her  closely, 
"not  later.  Better  at  once.  But  women  are  not  to  be  hur- 
ried." 

"Oh!  don't  class  me,  Percy,  pray!  I  think  of  you,  not  of 
myself." 

"You  suppose  that  in  a  day  or  two  I  might  vary?" 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  him,  expressing  certainty  of  his  un- 
alterable steadfastness.  The  look  allured.  It  changed:  her 
head  shook.  She  held  away  and  said:  "No,  leave  me:  leave 
me,  dear,  dear  friend.  Percy,  my  dearest!  I  will  not  ^play 
the  sex.'  I  am  yours  if  .  .  if  it  is  your  wish.  It  may  as 
well  be  to-morrow.  Here  I  am  useless.  I  cannot  write,  not 
screw  a  thought  from  my  head.  I  dread  that  'process  of  the 
law'  a  second  time.    To-morrow^,  if  it  must  be.     But  no  im- 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  227 

pulses.  Fortune  is  blind;  she  may  be  kind  to  us.  The  blind- 
ness of  Fortune  is  her  one  merit,  and  fools  accuse  her  of  it, 
and  they  profit  by  it!  I  fear  we  all  of  us  have  our  turn  of 
folly:  we  throw  the  stake  for  good  luck.  I  hope  my  sin  is 
not  very  great.  I  know  my  position  is  desperate.  I  feel  a  cul- 
prit. But  I  am  sure  I  have  courage,  perhaps  brains  to  help. 
At  any  rate,  I  may  say  this:  I  bring  no  burden  to  my  lover 
that  he  does  not  know  of." 

Dacier  pressed  her  hand.  "Money  we  shall  have  enough. 
My  uncle  has  left  me  fairly  supplied." 

"What  would  he  think?"  said  Diana,  half  in  a  glimpse  of 
meditation. 

"Think  me  the  luckiest  of  the  breeched.  I  fancy  I  hear 
him  thanking  you  for  'making  a  man'  of  me." 

She  blushed.  Some  such  phrase  might  have  been  spoken  by 
Lord  Dannisburgh. 

"I  have  but  a  poor  sum  of  money,"  she  said.  "I  may  be 
able  to  write  abroad.  Here  I  cannot — if  I  am  to  be  perse- 
cuted." 

"You  shall  write,  with  a  new  pen!"  said  Dacier.  "You  shall 
live,  my  darling  Tony.  You  have  been  held  too  long  in  this 
miserable  suspension — ^neither  maid  nor  wife,  neither  woman 
nor  stockfish.  Ah!  shameful.  But  we'll  right  it.  The  step, 
for  us,  is  the  most  reasonable  that  could  be  considered.  You 
shake  your  head.  But  the  circumstances  make  it  so.  Cour- 
age, and  we  come  to  happiness!  And  that,  for  you  and  me, 
means  work.  Look  at  the  case  of  Lord  and  Lady  Dulac.  It's 
identical,  except  that  she  is  no  match  beside  you:  and  I  do 
not  compare  her  antecedents  with  yours.  But  she  braved  the 
leap,  and  forced  the  world  to  swallow  it,  and  now,  you  see, 
she's  perfectly  honored.  I  know  a  place  on  a  peak  of  the 
Maritime  Alps,  exquisite  in  summer,  cool,  perfectly  solitary, 
no  English,  snow  round  us,  pastures  at  our  feet,  and  the  Med- 
iterranean below.  There!  my  Tony.  To-morrow  night  we 
start.  You  will  meet  me — shall  I  call  here? — well,  then,  at 
the  railway  station,  the  Southeastern,  for  Paris:  say,  twenty 
minutes  to  eight.    I  have  your  pledge?    You  will  come?" 

She  sighed  it,  then  said  it  firmly,  to  be  worthy  of  him. 
Kind  Fortune,  peeping  under  the  edge  of  her  bandaged  eyes, 
appeared  willing  to  bestow  the  beginning  of  happiness  upon 
one  who  thought  she  had  a  claim  to  a  small  taste  of  it  before 


228  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

she  died.  It  seemed  distinguishingly  done,  to  give  a  bite  of 
happiness  to  the  starving! 

"I  fancied  when  you  were  announced  that  you  came  for 
congratulations  upon  your  approaching  marriage,  Percy." 

"I  shall  expect  to  hear  them  from  you  to-morrow  evening  at 
the  station,  dear  Tony,"  said  he. 

The  time  was  again  stated,  the  pledge  repeated.  He  for- 
bore entreaties  for  privileges,  and  won  her  gratitude. 

They  named  once  more  the  place  of  meeting  and  the  hour; 
more  significant  to  them  than  phrases  of  intensest  love  and 
passion.  Pressing  hands  sharply  for  pledge  of  good  faith,  they 
sundered. 

She  still  had  him  in  her  eyes  when  he  had  gone.  Her  old 
world  lay  shattered;  her  new  world  was  up  without  a  dawn, 
with  but  one  figure,  the  sun  of  it,  to  light  the  swinging 
strangeness. 

Was  ever  man  more  marvelously  transformed?  or  woman 
more  wildly  swept  from  earth  into  the  clouds?  So  she  mused 
in  the  hum  of  her  tempest  of  heart  and  brain,  forgetful  of  the 
years  and  the  conditions  preparing  both  of  them  for  this  ex- 
plosion. 

She  had  much  to  do:  the  arrangements  to  dismiss  her  serv- 
ants, write  to  house-agents  and  her  lawyer,  and  write  fully  to 
Emma,  write  the  enigmatic  farewell  to  the  Esquarts  and  Lady 
Pennon,  Mary  Paynham,  Arthur  Khodes,  Whitmonby  (stanch 
in  friendship,  but  requiring  friendly  touches),  Henry  Wilmers, 
and  Eedworth.  He  was  reserved  to  the  last,  for  very  enigmat- 
ical adieux :  he  would  hear  the  whole  story  from  Emma;  must 
be  left  to  think  as  he  liked. 

The  vague  letters  were  excellently  well  composed:  she  was 
going  abroad,  and  knew  not  when  she  would  return;  bade  her 
friends  think  the  best  they  could  of  her  in  the  meantime. 
Whitmonby  was  favored  with  an  anecdote,  to  be  read  as  an 
apologue  by  the  light  of  subsequent  events.  But  the  letter  to 
Emma  tasked  Diana.  Intending  to  write  fully,  her  pen  com- 
mitted the  briefest  sentences:  the  tenderness  she  felt  for 
Emma  wakening  her  heart  to  sing  that  she  was  loved,  loved, 
and  knew  love  at  last;  and  Emma's  foreseen  antagonism  to 
the  love  and  the  step  it  involved  rendered  her  pleadings  in 
exculpation  a  stammered  confession  of  guiltiness,  ignominious, 
unworthy  of  the  pride  she  felt  for  her  lover.  "I  am  like  a  cart- 
ridge rammed  into  a  gun,  to  be  discharged  at  a  certain  hour  to- 


DIANA    OF   THE    CRO&SWAYS.  229 

morrow,"  she  wrote;  and  she  sealed  a  letter  so  frigid  that  she 
could  not  decide  to  post  it.  All  day  she  imagined  hearing  a 
distant  cannonade.  The  light  of  the  day  following  was  not 
like  earthly  light.  Danvers  assured  her  there  was  no  fog  in 
London. 

"London  is  insupportable;  I  am  going  to  Paris,  and  shall 
send  for  you  in  a  week  or  two/'  said  Diana. 

"Allow  me  to  say,  ma'am,  that  you  had  better  take  me  with 
you/'  said  Danvers. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  traveling  by  yourself,  you  foolish  creat- 
urer 

"No,  ma'am,  but  I  don't  like  any  hands  to  undress  and  dress 
my  mistress  but  my  own." 

"I  have  not  lost  the  art,"  said  Diana,  chafing  for  a  magic 
spell  to  extinguish  the  woman,  to  whom,  immediately  pity- 
ing her,  she  said:  "You  are  a  good  faithful  soul.  I  think 
you  have  never  kissed  me.    Kiss  me  on  the  forehead." 

Danvers  put  her  lips  to  her  mistress's  forehead,  and  was 
asked:    "You  still  consider  yourself  attached  to  my  fortunes?" 

"I  do,  ma'am,  at  home  or  abroad:  and  if  you  will  take  me 
with  you.    .     .     ." 

"Not  for  a  week  or  so." 

"I  shall  not  be  in  the  way,  ma'am." 

They  played  at  shutting  eyes.  The  petition  of  Danvers 
was  declined;  which  taught  her  the  more;  and  she  was  em- 
boldened to  say:  "Wherever  my  mistress  goes  she  ought  to 
have  her  attendant  with  her."  There  was  no  answer  to  it  but 
the  refusal. 

The  hours  crumbled  slowly,  each  with  a  blow  at  the  pas- 
sages of  retreat.  Diana  thought  of  herself  as  another  per- 
son, whom  she  observed,  not  counseling  her,  because  it  was  a 
creature  visibly  pushed  by  the  Fates.  In  her  own  mind  she 
could  not  perceive  a  stone  of  solidity  anywhere,  nor  a  face 
that  had  the  appearance  of  our  common  life.  She  heard  the 
cannon  at  intervals.  The  things  she  said  set  Danvers  laugh- 
ing, and  she  wondered  at  the  woman's  mingled  mirth  and 
stiffness.  Five  o'clock  struck.  Her  letters  were  sent  to  the 
post.  Her  boxes  were  piled  from  stairs  to  door.  She  read 
the  labels,  for  her  good-bye  to  the  hated  name  of  Warwick. 
Why  ever  adopted!  Emma  might  well  have  questioned  why! 
Women  are  guilty  of  such  unreasoning  acts!  But  this  was 
the  close  to  that  chapter.    The  hour  of  six  went  by.    Between 


230  DIANiA    OP    THE    CROSSWAYS 

six  and  seven  came  a  sound  of  knocker  and  bell  at  the  street- 
door.  Danvers  rushed  into  the  sitting-room  to  announce  that 
it  was  Mr.  Redworth.  Before  a  word  could  be  mustered,  Red- 
worth  was  in  the  room.  He  said:  "You  must  come  with  me 
at  once!'' 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

IN  WHICH  A  DISAPPOINTED  LOVER  RECEIVES  A  MULTI- 
TUDE OF  LESSONS. 

Dacier  waited  at  the  station,  a  good  figure  of  a  sentinel 
over  his  luggage  and  a  spy  for  one  among  the  inpouring  pas- 
sengers. Tickets  had  been  confidently  taken,  the  private  di- 
vision of  the  carriages  happily  secured.  On  board  the  boat 
she  would  be  veiled.  Landed  on  French  soil,  they  threw  off 
disguises,  breasted  the  facts.  And  those?  They  lightened. 
He  smarted  with  his  eagerness. 

He  had  come  well  in  advance  of  the  appointed  time,  for  he 
would  not  have  had  her  hang  about  there  one  minute  alone. 

Strange  as  this  adventure  was  to  a  man  of  prominent  sta- 
tion before  the  world,  and  electrical  as  the  turning-point  of  a 
destiny  that  he  was  given  to  weigh  deliberately  and  farsighted- 
ly,  Diana's  image  strung  him  to  the  pitch  of  it.  He  looked 
nowhere  but  ahead,  like  an  archer  putting  his  hand  for  his 
arrow. 

Presently  he  compared  his  watch  and  the  terminus  clock. 
She  should  now  be  arriving.  He  went  out  to  meet  her  and 
do  service.  Many  cabs  and  carriages  were  peered  into,  couples 
inspected,  ladies  and  their  maids,  wives  and  their  husbands — 
an  August  exodus  to  the  Continent.  Nowhere  the  starry  she. 
But  he  had  a  fund  of  patience.  She  was  now  in  some  block 
of  the  streets.  He  was  sure  of  her,  sure  of  her  courage.  Tony 
and  recreancy  could  not  go  together.  Now  that  he  called  her 
Tony  she  was  his  close  comrade,  known;  the  name  was  a 
caress  and  a  promise,  breathing  of  her  as  the  rose  of  sweetest 
earth.  He  counted  it  to  be  a  month  ere  his  family  would  have 
wind  of  the  altered  position  of  his  affairs,  possibly  a  year  to 
the  day  of  his  making  the  dear  woman  his  own  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  She  was  dear  past  computation,  womanly,  yet 
quite  unlike  the  womanish  women,  unlike  the  semi-males 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS  231 

courteously  called  dashing,  unlike  the  sentimental.  His  pres- 
ent passion  for  her  lineaments  declared  her  surpassingly  beau- 
tiful, though  his  critical  taste  was  rather  for  the  white  statue 
that  gave  no  warmth.  She  had  brains  and  ardor,  she  had  grace 
and  sweetness,  a  playful  petulancy  enlivening  our  atmosphere, 
and  withal  a  refinement,  a  distinction,  not  to  be  classed;  and 
justly  might  she  disHke  the  being  classed.  Her  humor  was 
a  perennial  refreshment,  a  running  well,  that  caught  all  the 
colors  of  light;  her  wit  studded  the  heavens  of  the  recollec- 
tion of  her.  In  his  heart  he  felt  that  it  was  a  stepping  down 
for  the  brilliant  woman  to  give  him  her  hand:  a  condescen- 
sion and  an  act  of  valor.  She  who  always  led  or  prompted 
when  they  conversed  had  now  in  her  generosity  abandoned 
the  lead  and  herself  to  him,  and  she  deserved  his  utmost  hon- 
oring. 

But  where  was  she?  He  looked  at  his  watch,  looked  at  the 
clock.  They  said  the  same:  ten  minutes  to  the  moment  of 
the  train's  departure. 

A  man  may  still  afford  to  dwell  on  the  charms  and  merits 
of  his  heart's  mistress  while  he  has  ten  minutes  to  spare.  The 
dropping  minutes,  however,  detract  one  by  one  from  her  in- 
dividuality and  threaten  to  sink  her  in  her  sex  entirely.  It 
is  the  inexorable  clock  that  says  she  is  as  other  women.  Da- 
cier  began  to  chafe.  He  was  unaccustomed  to  the  part  he  was 
performing:  and  if  she  failed  him?  She  would  not.  She 
would  be  late,  though.  No,  she  was  in  time!  His  long  legs 
crossed  the  platform  to  overtake  a  tall  lady  veiled  and  dressed 
in  black.  He  lifted  his  hat;  he  heard  an  alarmed  little  cry 
and  retired.  The  clock  said,  Five  minutes:  a  secret  chiro- 
mancy in  addition  indicating  on  its  face  the  word  Fool. 
An  odd  word  to  be  cast  at  him!  It  rocked  the  icy  pillar  of 
pride  in  the  background  of  his  nature.  Certainly  standing 
solus  at  the  hour  of  eight  p.  m.,  he  would  stand  for  a  fool. 
Hitherto  he  had  never  allowed  a  woman  the  chance  to  pos- 
ture him  in  that  character.  He  strode  out,  returned,  scanned 
every  lady's  shape,  and  for  a  distraction  watched  the  veilod 
lady  whom  he  had  accosted.  Her  figure  suggested  pleasant 
features.  Either  she  was  disappointed  or  she  was  an  adept. 
At  the  shutting  of  the  gates  she  glided  through,  not  without 
a  fearful  look  around  and  at  him.  She  disappeared.  Dacier 
shrugged.  His  novel  assimilation  to  the  rat  rabble  of  amatory 
intriguers  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  unpleasantly.    A  luck- 


232  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

less  member  of  the  fraternity  too!  The  bell,  the  clock,  and 
the  train  gave  him  his  title.  "And  I  was  ready  to  fling  down 
everything  for  the  woman.'^  The  trial  of  a  superb  London 
gentleman's  resources  in  the  love-passion  could  not  have  been 
much  keener.    No  sign  of  her. 

He  who  stands  ready  to  defy  the  world,  and  is  baffled  by 
the  absence  of  his  fair  assistant,  is  the  fool  doubled,  so  com- 
pletely the  fool  that  he  heads  the  universal  shout;  he  does 
not  spare  himself.  The  sole  consolation  he  has  is  to  revile 
the  sex.  Women!  women!  Whom  have  they  not  made  a  fool 
of!  His  uncle  as  much  as  any — and  professing  to  know  them. 
Him  also!  the  man  proud  of  escaping  their  wiles.  "For  this 
woman!"  ...  he  went  on  saying  after  he  had  lost  sight 
of  her  in  her  sex's  trickeries.  The  nearest  he  could  get  to  her 
was  to  conceive  that  the  arrant  coquette  was  now  laughing  at 
her  utter  subjugation  and  befooling  of  the  man  popularly 
supposed  invincible.  If  it  were  known  of  him!  The  idea  of 
his  being  a  puppet  fixed  for  derision  was  madly  distempering. 
He  had  only  to  ask  the  affirmative  of  Constance  Asper  to-mor- 
row! A  vision  of  his  determining  to  do  it  somewhat  com- 
forted him. 

Dacier  walked  up  and  down  the  platform,  passing  his  pile 
of  luggage,  solitary  and  eloquent  on  the  barrow.  Never  in 
his  life  having  been  made  to  look  a  fool,  he  felt  the  red  heat 
of  the  thing;  as  a  man  who  has  not  blessedly  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  swish  in  boyhood  finds  his  untempered 
blood  turn  to  poison  at  a  blow — he  cannot  healthily  take  a 
licking.  But  then  it  had  been  so  splendid  an  insanity  when 
he  urged  Diana  to  fly  with  him.  Any  one  but  a  woman  would 
have  appreciated  the  sacrifice. 

His  luggage  had  to  be  removed.  He  dropped  his  porter  a 
lordly  fee  and  drove  home.  From  that  astonished  solitude  he 
strolled  to  his  club.  Curiosity  mastering  the  wrath  it  was 
mixed  with,  he  left  his  club  and  crossed  the  Park  southward 
in  the  direction  of  Diana's  house,  abusing  her  for  her  in- 
veterate attachment  to  the  regions  of  Westminster.  There  she 
used  to  receive  Lord  Dannisburgh;  innocently,  no  doubt — 
assuredly  quite  innocently;  and  her  husband  had  quitted  the 
district.  Still  it  was  rather  childish  for  a  woman  to  be  al- 
ways haunting  the  seats  of  Parliament.  Her  disposition  to 
imagine  that  she  was  able  to  inspire  statesmen  came  in  for  a 
share  of  ridicule;   for  when  we  know  ourselves  to  be  ridicu- 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  233 

lous  a  retort  in  kind,  unjust  upon  consideration,  is  balm.  The 
woman  dragged  him  down  to  the  level  of  common  men;  that 
was  the  peculiar  injury,  and  it  swept  her  undistinguished 
into  the  stream  of  women.  In  appearance,  as  he  had  proved 
to  the  fellows  at  his  club,  he  was  perfectly  self-possessed,  men- 
tally distracted  and  bitter,  hating  himself  for  it,  snapping  at 
the  cause  of  it.  She  had  not  merely  disappointed,  she  had 
slashed  his  high  conceit  of  himself,  curbed  him  at  the  first 
animal  dash  forward,  and  he  champed  the  bit  with  the  fury 
of  a  thwarted  racer. 

Twice  he  passed  her  house.  Of  course  no  light  was  shown 
at  her  windows.    They  were  scanned  malignly. 

He  held  it  due  to  her  to  call  and  inquire  whether  there 
was  any  truth  in  the  report  of  Mrs.  Warwick's  illness.  Mrs. 
"Warwick!    She  meant  to  keep  the  name. 

A  maid-servant  came  to  the  door  with  a  candle  in  her  hand 
revealing  red  eyelids.  She  was  not  aware  that  her  mistress 
was  unwell.  Her  mistress  had  left  home  some  time  after  six 
o'clock  with  a  gentleman.  She  was  unable  to  tell  him  the 
gentleman's  name.  William,  the  footman,  had  opened  the 
door  to  him.  Her  mistress's  maid,  Mrs.  Danvers,  had  gone 
to  the  play — with.  William.  She  thought  that  Mrs.  Danvers 
might  know  who  the  gentleman  was.  The  girl's  eyelids 
blinked,  and  she  turned  aside.  Dacier  consoled  her  with  a 
piece  of  gold,  saying  he  would  come  and  see  Mrs.  Danvers  in 
the  morning. 

His  wrath  was  partially  quieted  by  the  new  speculations 
offered  up  to  it.  He  could  not  conjure  a  suspicion  of  treachery 
in  Diana  Warwick;  and  a  treachery  so  foully  cynical!  She 
had  gone  with  a  gentleman.  He  guessed  on  all  sides;  he 
struck  at  walls  as  in  complete  obscurity. 

The  mystery  of  her  conduct  troubling  his  wits  for  the  many 
hours  was  explained  by  Danvers.  With  a  sympathy  that  she 
was  at  pains  to  show  she  informed  him  that  her  mistress  was 
not  at  all  unwell,  and  related  of  how  Mr.  Redworth  had  ar- 
rived just  when  her  mistress  was  on  the  point  of  starting  for 
Paris  and  the  Continent;  because  poor  Lady  Dunstane  was 
this  very  day  to  undergo  an  operation  under  the  surgeons  at 
Copsley,  and  she  did  not  wish  her  mistress  to  be  present,  but 
Mr.  Redworth  thought  her  mistress  ought  to  be  there,  and 
he  had  gone  down  thinking  she  was  there,  and  then  came  back 


234  DIANiA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

in  hot  haste  to  fetch  her,  and  was  just  in  time,  as  it  happened, 
by  two  or  three  minutes. 

Dacier  rewarded  the  sympathetic  woman  for  her  intelH- 
gence,  which  appeared  to  him  to  have  shot  so  far  as  to  re- 
quire a  bribe.  Gratitude  to  the  person  soothing  his  unwonted- 
ly  ruffled  temper  was  the  cause  of  the  indiscretion  in  the 
amount  he  gave. 

It  appeared  to  him  that  he  ought  to  proceed  to  Copsley  for 
tidings  of  Lady  Dunstane.  Thither  he  sped  by  the  handy 
railway  and  a  timely  train.  He  reached  the  park-gates  at 
three  in  the  afternoon,  telling  his  flyman  to  wait.  As  he  ad- 
vanced by  short  cuts  over  the  grass  he  studied  the  look  of 
the  rows  of  windows.  She  was  within,  and  strangely  to  his 
clouded  senses  she  was  no  longer  Tony,  no  longer  the  decep- 
tive woman  he  could  in  justice  abuse.  He  and  she,  so  close 
to  union,  were  divided.  A  hand  resembling  the  palpable  in- 
terposition of  Fate  had  swept  them  asunder.  Having  the 
poorest  right — ^not  any — ^to  reproach  her,  he  was  disarmed,  he 
felt  himself  a  miserable  intruder;  he  summoned  his  passion 
to  excuse  him,  and  gained  some  unsatisfied  repose  of  mind  by 
contemplating  its  devoted  sincerity;  which  roused  an  effort 
to  feel  for  the  sufferer — Diana  Warwick's  friend.  With  the 
pair  of  surgeons  named,  the  most  eminent  of  their  day,  in  at- 
tendance, the  case  must  be  serious.  To  vindicate  the  breaker 
of  her  pledge,  his  present  plight  likewise  assured  him  of  that, 
and  nearing  the  house  he  adopted  instinctively  the  funeral 
step  and  mood,  just  sensible  of  a  novel  smallness.  For  the 
fortifying  testimony  of  his  passion  had  to  be  put  aside,  he  was 
obliged  to  disavow  it  for  a  simpler  motive  if  he  applied  at  the 
door.  He  stressed  the  motive,  produced  the  sentiment,  and 
passed  thus  naturally  into  hypocrisy,  as  lovers  precipitated  by 
their  blood  among  the  crises  of  human  conditions  are  often 
forced  to  do.  He  had  come  to  inquire  after  Lady  Dunstane. 
He  remembered  that  it  had  struck  him  as  a  duty,  on  hearing  of 
her  dangerous  illness. 

The  door  opened  before  he  touched  the  bell.  Sir  Lukin 
knocked  against  him  and  stared. 

"Ah! — who? — you?"  he  said,  and  took  him  by  the  arm 
and  pressed  him  on  along  the  gravel.  "Dacier,  are  you?  Red- 
worth's  in  there.  Come  on  a  step,  come!  It's  the  time  for  us 
to  pray.  Good  God!  There's  mercy  for  sinners.  If  ever 
there  was  a  man!  .  .  .  But,  oh,  good  God!  she's  in  their 
hands  this  minute.    My  saint  is  under  the  knife." 


DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  235 

Dacier  was  hurried  forward  by  a  powerful  hand.  "They 
say  it  lasts  about  five  minutes,  four  and  a  half — or  more!  My 
God!  When  they  turned  me  out  of  her  room  she  smiled  to 
keep  me  calm.  She  said:  'Dear  husband' — the  veriest  wretch 
and  brutalest  husband  ever  poor  woman  ....  and  a 
saint!  a  saint  on  earth!  Emmy!"    Tears  burst  from  him. 

He  pulled  forth  his  watch  and  asked  Dacier  for  the  time. 

"A  minute's  gone  in  a  minute.  It's  three  minutes  and  a 
half.  Come  faster.  They're  at  their  work!  It's  hfe  or  death. 
I've  had  death  about  me.  But  for  a  woman!  and  your  wife! 
and  that  brave  soul!  She  bears  it  so.  Women  are  the  brav- 
est creatures  afloat.  If  they  make  her  shriek  it'll  be  only  if 
she  thinks  I'm  out  of  hearing.  No;  I  see  her.  She  bears  it! 
They  mayn't  have  begun  yet.  It  may  all  be  over!  Come 
into  the  wood.    I  must  pray.    I  must  go  on  my  knees." 

Two  or  three  steps  in  the  wood,  at  the  mossed  roots  of  a 
beech,  he  fell  kneeling,  muttering,  exclaiming. 

The  tempest  of  penitence  closed  with  a  blind  look  at  his 
watch,  which  he  left  dangling.  He  had  to  talk  to  drug  his 
thoughts. 

"And  mind  you,"  said  he,  when  he  had  rejoined  Dacier 
and  was  pushing  his  arm  again,  rounding  beneath  the  trees 
to  a  view  of  the  house,  "for  a  man  steeped  in  damnable  in- 
iquity! She  bears  it  all  for  me,  because  I  begged  her,  for  the 
chance  of  her  living.  It's  my  doing — this  knife!  Macpherson 
swears  there  is  a  chance.  Thomson  backs  him.  But  they're 
at  her,  cutting!  .  .  .  The  pain  must  be  awful — the  mere 
pain!  The  gentlest  creature  ever  drew  breath!  And  women 
fear  blood — and  her  own!    And  a  head!     She  ought  to  have 

married  the  best  man  alive,  not  a !    I  can't  remember  her 

once  complaining  of  me — not  once.  A  common  donkey  com- 
pared to  her!  All  I  can  do  is  to  pray.  And  she  knows  the 
beast  I  am,  and  has  forgiven  me.  There  isn't  a  blessed  text 
of  Scripture  that  doesn't  cry  out  in  praise  of  her.  And  they 
cut  and  hack!  .  .  ."  He  dropped  his  head.  The  vehe- 
ment big  man  heaved,  shuddering.    His  lips  worked  fast. 

"She  is  not  alone  with  them,  unsupported?"  said  Dacier. 

Sir  Lukin  moaned  for  relief.  He  caught  his  watch  swinging 
and  stared  at  it.  "What  a  good  fellow  you  were  to  come! 
Now's  the  time  to  know  your  friends.  There's  Diana  War- 
wick, true  as  steel.  Eedworth  came  on  her  tip-toe  for  the 
Continent;  he  had  only  to  mention    .    .    .    Emmy  wanted 


236  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

to  spare  her.  She  would  not  have  sent — wanted  to  spare  her 
the  sight.  I  offered  to  stand  by  .  .  .  Chased  me  out. 
Diana  Warwick's  there;  worth  fifty  of  me!  Dacier^  Tve  had 
my  sword-blade  tried  by  Indian  horsemen,  and  I  know  what 
true  as  steel  means.  She's  there.  And  I  know  she  shrinks 
from  the  sight  of  blood.  My  oath  on  it,  she  won't  quiver  a 
muscle!  Next  to  my  wife,  you  may  take  my  word  for  it, 
Dacier,  Diana  Warwick  is  the  pick  of  living  women.  I  could 
prove  it.  They  go  together.  I  could  prove  it  over  and  over. 
She's  the  loyalest  woman  anywhere.  Her  one  error  was  that 
marriage  of  hers,  and  how  she  ever  pitched  herself  into  it  none 
of  us  can  guess."  After  a  while,  he  said:  "Look  at  your 
watch." 

"Nearly  twenty  minutes  gone." 

"Are  they  afraid  to  send  out  word?  It's  that  window!" 
He  covered  his  eyes,  and  muttered,  sighed.  He  became 
abruptly  composed  in  appearance.  "The  worst  of  a  black 
sheep  like  me  is,  I'm  such  an  infernal  sinner,  that  Provi- 
dence! .  .  .  But  both  surgeons  gave  me  their  word  of 
honor  that  there  was  a  chance.    A  chance!    But  it's  the  end 

of  me  if  Emmy .     Good  God!    no!    the  knife's  enough; 

don't  let  her  be  killed!  It  would  be  murder.  Here  am  I  talk- 
ing! I  ought  to  be  pra}dng.  I  should  have  sent  for  the  par- 
son to  help  me;  I  can't  get  the  proper  words — bellow  like  a 
rascal  trooper  strung  up  for  the  cat.  It  must  be  twenty-five 
minutes  now.    Who's  alive  now!" 

Dacier  thought  of  the  Persian  Queen  crying  for  news  of 
the  slaughtered,  with  her  mind  on  her  lord  and  husband: 
"Who  is  not  dead?"  Diana  exalted  poets,  and  here  was  an 
example  of  the  truth  of  one  to  nature,  and  of  the  poor  hus- 
band's depth  of  feeling.  They  said  not  the  same  thing,  but 
it  was  the  same  cry,  De  profundis. 

He  saw  Eedworth  coming  at  a  quick  pace. 

Eedworth  raised  his  hand.  Sir  Lukin  stopped.  "He's 
waving!" 

"It's  good,"  said  Dacier. 

"Speak!   are  you  sure?" 

"I  judge  by  the  look." 

Eedworth  stepped  unfalteringly. 

"It's  over,  all  well,"  he  said.  He  brushed  his  forehead  and 
looked  sharply  cheerful. 

"My  dear  fellow!  my  dear  fellow |"  Sir  Lukin  grasped  his 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  237 

hand.  "It's  more  than  I  deserve.  Over?  She  has  borne  it! 
She  would  have  gone  to  heaven  and  left  me— — !  Is  she 
safe?" 

"Doing  well." 

"Have  you  seen  the  surgeons?" 

"Mrs.  Warwick." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"A  nod  of  the  head." 

"You  saw  her?" 

"She  came  to  the  stairs." 

"Diana  Warwick  never  lies.  She  wouldn't  lie,  not  with  a 
nod!    They've  saved  Emmy — do  you  think?" 

"It  looks  well." 

"My  girl  has  passed  the  worst  of  it?" 

"That's  over." 

Sir  Lukin  gazed  glassily.  The  necessity  of  his  agony  was 
to  lean  to  the  belief,  at  a  beckoning,  that  Providence  par- 
doned him,  in  tenderness  for  his  love  of  his  dear  adored  wife. 
He  realized  it,  and  experienced  a  sudden  calm:  testifying  to 
the  positive  pardon. 

"Now,  look  here,  you  two  fellows,  listen  half  a  moment," 
he  addressed  Eedworth  and  Dacier.  "I've  been  the  biggest 
scoundrel  of  a  husband  unhung,  and  married  to  a  saint;  and, 
if  she's  only  saved  to  me,  I'll  swear  to  serve  her  faithfully, 
or  may  a  thunderbolt  knock  me  to  perdition!  and  thank  God 
for  his  justice!  Prayers  are  answered,  mind  you,  though  a 
fellow  may  be  as  black  as  a  sweep.  Take  a  warning  from  me. 
I've  had  my  lesson." 

Dacier  soon  after  talked  of  going.  The  hope  of  seeing 
Diana  had  abandoned  him,  the  desire  was  almost  extinct. 

Sir  Lukin  could  not  let  him  go.  He  yearned  to  preach  to 
him  or  any  one  from  his  personal  text  of  the  sinner  honor- 
ably remorseful  notwithstanding  the  forgiveness  of  Provi- 
dence, and  he  implored  Dacier  and  Redworth  by  turns  to  be 
careful  when  they  married  of  how  they  behaved  to  the  sainted 
women  their  wives;  never  to  lend  ear  to  the  devil,  nor  to  be- 
lieve, as  he  had  done,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  devil, 
for  he  had  been  the  victim  of  him,  and  he  knew.  The  devil, 
he  loudly  proclaimed,  has  a  multiplicity  of  lures,  and  none 
more  deadly  than  when  he  baits  with  a  petticoat.  He  had 
been  hooked,  and  had  found  the  devil  in  person.  He  begged 
them  urgently  to  keep  his  example  in  memory.    By  following 


238  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

this  and  that  wildfire  he  had  stuck  himself  in  a  bog — ^a  com- 
mon result  with  those  who  w^ould  not  see  the  devil  at  work 
npon  them;  and  it  required  his  dear  suffering  saint  to  be  at 
death's  doors,  cut  to  pieces  and  gasping,  to  open  his  eyes. 
But,  thank  Heaven,  they  were  opened  at  last!  Now  he  saw  the 
beast  he  was — a  filthy  beast!  unworthy  of  tying  his  wife's 
shoestring.  No  confessions  could  expose  to  them  the  beast  he 
was.  But  let  them  not  fancy  there  was  no  such  thing  as  an 
active  Devil  about  the  world. 

Eedworth  divined  that  the  simply  sensational  man  abased 
himself  before  Providence  and  heaped  his  gratitude  on  the 
awful  power  in  order  to  render  it  difficult  for  the  promise  of 
the  safety  of  his  wife  to  be  withdrawn. 

He  said,  "There  is  good  hope";  and  drew  an  admonition 
upon  himself. 

"Ah!  my  dear  good  Eedworth,"  Sir  Lukin  sighed  from 
his  elevation  of  out-spoken  penitence,  "you  will  see  as  I  do 
some  day.  It  is  the  devil,  think  as  you  like  of  it.  When  you 
have  pulled  down  all  the  institutions  of  the  country  what  do 
you  expect  but  ruins?  That  Radicalism  of  yours  has  its 
day.  You  have  to  go  through  a  wrestle  like  mine  to  under- 
stand it.  You  say,  the  day  is  fine,  let's  have  our  game.  Old 
England  pays  for  it!  Then  you'll  find  how  you  love  the  old 
land  of  your  birth — the  noblest  ever  called  a  nation! — with 
your  Corn  Law  Repeals! — eh,  Dacier?  You'll  own  it  was  the 
devil  tempted  you.  I  hear  you  apologizing.  Pray  God,  it 
mayn't  be  too  late!" 

He  looked  up  at  the  windows.    "She  may  be  sinking!" 

"Have  no  fears,"  Redworth  said;  "Mrs.  Warwick  would 
send  for  you." 

"She  would.  Diana  Warwick  would  be  sure  to  send.  Next 
to  my  wife,  Diana  Warwick's  .  .  she'd  send,  never  fear.  I 
dread  that  room.  I'd  rather  go  through  a  regiment  of  sabers 
— though  it's  over  now.  And  Diana  Warwick  stood  it.  The 
worst  is  over,  you  told  me.  By  Heaven!  women  are  wonder- 
ful creatures.  But  she  hasn't  a  peer  for  courage.  I  could 
trust  her — most  extraordinary  thing,  that  marriage  of  hers! — 
not  a  soul  has  ever  been  able  to  explain  it — trust  her  to  the 
death." 

Redworth  left  them,  and  Sir  Lukin  ejaculated  on  the 
merits  of  Diana  Warwick  to  Dacier.  He  laughed  scornfully: 
"And  that's  the  woman  the  world  attacks  for  want  of  virtue! 


DIANiA   OF   THE  CROSSWAYS. 

Wh}^  a  fellow  hasn't  a  chance  with  her — not  a  chance!  She 
comes  out  in  Mazing  armor  if  jou  unmask  a  hattery.  I  don't 
know  how  it  might  he  if  she  were  in  love  with  a  fellow.  I 
doubt  her  thinking  men  worth  the  trouble.  I  never  met  the 
man.  But  if  she  were  to  take  fire  Troy'd  be  nothing  to  it.  I 
wonder  whether  we  might  go  in:  I  dread  the  house." 

Dacier  spoke  of  departing. 

"No,  no — wait,"  Sir  Lukin  begged  him.  "I  was  talking 
about  woman.  They  are  the  devil — or  he  makes  most  use  of 
them:  and  you  must  learn  to  see  the  cloven  foot  under  their 
petticoats  if  you're  to  escape  them.  There's  no  protection  in 
being  in  love  with  your  wife.  I  married  for  love;  I  am — I 
always  have  been — in  love  with  her;  and  I  went  to  the  deuce. 
The  music  struck  up  and  away  I  waltzed.  A  woman  like 
Diana  Warwick  might  keep  a  fellow  straight,  because  she's 
all  round  you.  She's  man  and  woman  in  brains;  and  legged 
like  a  deer,  and  breasted  like  a  swan,  and  a  regular  sheaf  of 
arrows  in  her  eyes.  Dark  women — ah!  But  she  has  a  con- 
tempt for  us,  you  know.  That's  the  secret  of  her.  Kedworth's 
at  the  door.  Bad?  Is  it  bad?  I  never  was  particularly  fond 
of  that  house — hated  it.  I  love  it  now  for  Emmy's  sake.  I 
couldn't  live  in  another — though  I  should  be  haunted.  Bath- 
er her  ghost  than  nothing — though  I'm  an  infernal  coward 
about  the  next  world.  But  if  you're  right  with  religion  you 
needn't  fear.  What  I  can't  comprehend  in  Kedworth  is  his 
Eadicalism,  and  getting  richer  and  richer." 

"It's  not  a  vow  of  poverty,"  said  Dacier. 

"He'll  find  they  don't  coalesce,  or  his  children  will.  Once 
the  masses  are  uppermost!  It's  a  bad  day,  Dacier,  when  we've 
no  more  gentlemen  in  the  land.  Emmy  backs  him,  so  I  hold 
my  tongue.  To-morrow's  a  Sunday.  I  wish  you  were  staying 
here;  I'd  take  you  to  church  with  me — ^we  shirk  it  when  we 
haven't  a  care.  It  couldn't  do  you  harm.  I've  heard  capital 
sermons.  I've  always  had  the  good  habit  of  going  to  church, 
Dacier.  Now's  the  time  for  remembering  them.  Ah!  my  dear 
fellow,  I'm  not  a  parson.  It  would  have  been  better  for  me 
if  I  had  been." 

And  for  you,  too!  his  look  added  plainly.  He  longed  to 
preach;  he  was  impelled  to  chatter. 

Redworth  reported  the  patient  perfectly  quiet,  breathing 
calmly. 

"Laudanum?"  asked  Sir  Lukin.     "Now  there's  a  poison 


240  DIANA    OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

we've  got  to  bless!  And  we  set  up  in  our  wisdom  for  knowing 
what  is  good  for  us!" 

He  had  talked  his  hearers  into  a  stupefied  assent  to  any- 
thing he  uttered. 

"Mrs  Warwick  would  like  to  see  you  in  two  or  three  min- 
utes; she  will  come  down/'  Eedworth  said  to  Dacier. 

"That  looks  well,  eh?  That  looks  bravely!"  Sir  Lukin 
cried.  "Diana  Warwick  wouldn't  leave  the  room  without  a 
certainty.    I  dread  the  look  of  those  men;   I  shall  have  to 

shake  their  hands!    And  so  I  do,  with  all  my  heart:  only 

But  God  bless  them!  But  we  must  go  in  if  she's  coming 
down." 

They  entered  the  house,  and  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  where 
Sir  Lukin  took  up  from  the  table  one  of  his  wife's  Latin 
books,  a  Persius,  bearing  her  marginal  notes.  He  dropped 
his  head  on  it,  with  sobs. 

The  voice  of  Diana  recalled  him  to  the  present.  She  coun- 
seled him  to  control  himself:  in  that  case  he  might  for  one 
moment  go  to  the  chamber-door  and  assure  himself  by  the 
silence  that  his  wife  was  resting.  She  brought  permission 
from  the  surgeons  and  doctor,  on  his  promise  to  be  still. 

Eedworth  supported  Sir  Lukin  tottering  out. 

Dacier  had  risen.  He  was  petrified  by  Diana's  face,  and 
thought  of  her  as  whirled  from  him  in  a  storm,  bearing  the 
marks  of  it.  Her  underlip  hung  for  short  breaths;  the  big 
drops  of  her  recent  anguish  still  gathered  on  her  brows;  her 
eyes  were  tearless,  lusterless;  she  looked  ancient  in  youth, 
and  distant  by  a  century,  like  a  tall  woman  of  the  vaults,  is- 
suing white-ringed,  not  of  our  light. 

She  shut  her  mouth  for  strength  to  speak  to  him. 

He  said:    "You  are  not  ill?    You  are  strong?" 

"I  ?  Oh,  strong.  I  will  sit.  I  cannot  be  absent  longer  than 
two  minutes.  The  trial  of  her  strength  is  to  come.  If  it 
were  courage  we  might  be  sure.    The  day  is  fine?" 

"A  perfect  August  day." 

"I  held  her  through  it.  I  am  thankful  to  Heaven  it  was 
no  other  hand  than  mine.  She  wished  to  spare  me.  She 
was  glad  of  her  Tony  when  the  time  came.  I  thought  I  was 
a  coward — I  could  have  changed  with  her  to  save  her;  I  am 
a  strong  woman,  fit  to  submit  to  that  work.  I  should  not 
have  borne  it  as  she  did.  She  expected  to  sink  under  it.  All 
her  dispositions  were  made  for  death — bequests  to  servants  and 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  241 

to  ...  to  friends;  every  secret  liking  they  had  thought 
of!" 

Diana  clenched  her  hands. 

"I  hope!"  Dacier  said. 

"You  shall  hear  regularly.  Call  at  Sir  William's  house 
to-morrow.  He  sleeps  here  to-night.  The  suspense  must  last 
for  days.  It  is  a  question  of  vital  power  to  bear  the  shock. 
She  has  a  mind  so  like  a  flying  spirit  that,  just  before  the  mo- 
ment, she  made  Mr.  Lanyan  Thomson  smile  by  quoting  some 
saying  of  her  Tony's." 

"Try  by-and-by  to  recollect  it/'  said  Dacier. 

"And  you  were  with  that  poor  man!  How  did  he  pass  the 
terrible  time?    I  pitied  him." 

"He  suffered;  he  prayed." 

"It  was  the  best  he  could  do.  Mr.  Redworth  was,  as  he 
always  is  at  the  trial,  a  pillar.  Happy  the  friend  who  knows 
him  for  one!  He  never  thinks  of  himself  in  a  crisis.  He  is 
sheer  strength  to  comfort  and  aid.  They  will  drive  you  to  the 
station  with  Mr.  Thomson.  He  returns  to  relieve  Sir  William 
to-morrow.  I  have  learnt  to  admire  the  men  of  the  knife!  No 
profession  equals  theirs  in  self-command  and  beneficence.  Dr. 
Bridgenorth  is  permanent  here." 

"I  have  a  fly,  and  go  back  immediately,"  said  Dacier. 

"She  shall  hear  of  your  coming.    Adieu." 

Diana  gave  him  her  hand.    It  was  gently  pressed. 

A  wonderment  at  the  utter  change  of  circumstances  took 
Dacier  passingly  at  the  sight  of  her  vanishing  figure. 

He  left  the  house,  feeling  he  dared  have  no  personal  wishes. 
It  had  ceased  to  be  the  lover's  hypocrisy  with  him. 

The  crisis  of  mortal  peril  in  that  house  enveloped  its  in- 
mates, and  so  wrought  in  him  as  to  enshroud  the  stripped  out- 
crying husband,  of  whom  he  had  no  clear  recollection,  save 
of  the  man's  agony.  The  two  women,  striving  against  death, 
devoted  in  friendship,  were  the  sole  living  images  he  brought 
away;  they  were  a  new  vision  of  the  world  and  our  life. 

He  hoped  with  Diana,  bled  with  her.  She  rose  above  him 
high,  beyond  his  transient  human  claims.  He  envied  Red- 
worth  the  common  friendly  right  to  be  near  her.  In  reflec- 
tion, long  after,  her  simplicity  of  speech,  washed  pure  of  the 
blood-emotions,  for  token  of  her  great  nature,  during  those 
two  minutes  of  their  sitting  together,  was  dearer,  sweeter  to 
the  lover  than  if  she  had  shown  by  touch  or  word  that  a  faint 

16 


242  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

allusion  to  their  severance  was  in  her  mind;   and  this  despite 
a  certain  vacancy  it  created. 

He  received  formal  information  of  Lady  Dunstane's  prog- 
ress to  convalescence.  By  degrees  the  simply  official  tone  of 
Diana's  letters  combined,  with  the  ceasing  of  them  and  the 
absence  of  her  personal  charm,  to  make  a  gentleman  not  re- 
markable for  violence  in  the  passion  so  calmly  reasonable  as 
to  think  the  dangerous  presence  best  avoided  for  a  time.  Sub- 
ject to  fits  of  the  passion  he  certainly  was,  but  his  position  in 
the  world  was  a  counseling  spouse,  jealous  of  his  good  name. 
He  did  not  regret  his  proposal  to  take  the  leap;  he  would  not 
have  regretted  it  if  taken.  On  the  safe  side  of  the  abyss,  how- 
ever, it  wore  a  gruesome  look  to  his  cool  blood. 


CHAPTEE  XXYII. 

CONTAINS  MATTER  FOR  SUBSEQUENT  EXPLOSION. 

Among  the  various  letters  inundating  Sir  Lukin  Dunstane 
upon  the  report  of  the  triumph  of  surgical  skill  achieved  by 
Sir  William  Macpherson  and  Mr.  Lanyan  Thomson,  was  one 
from  Lady  Wathin,  dated  Adlands,  an  estate  of  Mr.  Quintin 
Manx's  in  Warwickshire,  petitioning  for  the  shortest  line  of 
reassurance  as  to  the  condition  of  her  dear  cousin,  and  an  in- 
timation of  the  period  when  it  might  be  deemed  possible  for  a 
relative  to  call  and  offer  her  sincere  congratulations:  a  let- 
ter deserving  a  personal  reply,  one  would  suppose.  She  re- 
ceived the  following,  in  a  succinct  female  hand  corresponding 
to  its  terseness;  every  t  righteously  crossed,  every  i  punctil- 
iously dotted,  as  she  remarked  to  Constance  Asper,  to  whom 
the  communication  was  transferred  for  perusal: — 

"Dear  Lady  Wathin, 

"Lady  Dunstane  is  gaining  strength.  The  measure  of  her 
pulse  indicates  favorably.  She  shall  be  informed  in  good  time 
of  your  solicitude  for  her  recovery.  The  day  cannot  yet  be 
named  for  visits  of  any  kind.  You  will  receive  information  as 
soon  as  the  house  is  open. 

"I  have  undertaken  the  task  of  correspondence,  and  beg 
you  to  believe  me^ 

'^ery  truly  yours, 

"D.  A.  Warwick." 


DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS.  243 

Miss  Asper  speculated  on  the  hand-writing  of  her  rival. 
She  obtained  permission  to  keep  the  letter,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  transmitting  it  per  post  to  an  advertising  interpreter 
of  character  in  caligraphy. 

Such  was  the  character  of  the  fair  young  heiress,  exhibited 
by  her  performances  much  more  patently  than  the  run  of  a 
quill  would  reveal  it. 

She  said,  "It  is  rather  a  pretty  hand,  I  think." 

"Mrs.  Warwick  is  a  practiced  writer,"  said  Lady  Wathin. 
"Writing  is  her  profession,  if  she  has  any.  She  goes  to  nurse 
my  cousin.  Her  husband  says  she  is  an  excellent  nurse.  He 
says  what  he  can  for  her.  But  you  must  be  in  the  last  ex- 
tremity, or  she  is  ice.  His  appeal  to  her  has  been  totally  dis- 
regarded. Until  he  drops  down  in  the  street,  as  his  doctor  ex- 
pects him  to  do  some  day,  she  will  continue  her  course;  and 
even  then  .  .  ."  An  adventuress  desiring  her  freedom! 
Lady  Wathin  looked.  She  was  too  devout  a  woman  to  say 
w^hat  she  thought.  But  she  knew  the  world  to  be  very  wicked. 
Of  Mrs.  Warwick  her  opinion  was  formed.  She  would  not 
have  charged  the  individual  creature  with  a  criminal  design; 
all  she  did  was  to  stuff  the  person  her  virtue  abhorred  with 
the  wickedness  of  the  world,  and  that  is  a  common  process 
in  antipathy. 

She  sympathized,  moreover,  with  the  beautiful  devotedness 
of  the  wealthy  heiress  to  her  ideal  of  man.  It  had  led  her  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  old  Lady  "Oacier,  at  the  house  in 
town,  where  Constance  Asper  had  first  met  Percy;  Mrs. 
Grafton  Winstanley's  house,  r<^presenting  neutral  territory  or 
debatable  land  for  Ihe  occasional  intercourse  of  the  upper 
class  and  the  climbing  in  the  prof-^ssions  or  in  commerce;  Mrs. 
Grafton  Winstanley  being  on  the  edge  of  aristocracy  by  birth, 
her  husband,  like  Mr.  Quin^in  Manx,  a  lord  of  fleets.  Old 
Lady  Dacier's  bluntness  in  speaking  of  her  grandson  would 
have  shocked  Lady  Wathin  as  much  as  it  astonished,  had  she 
been  less  of  an  ardent  absorber  of  aristocratic  manners.  Percy 
was  plainly  called  a  donkey,  for  hanging  off  and  on  with  a 
handsome  girl  of  such  expectations  as  Miss  Asper.  "But  what 
you  can't  do  with  a  horse  you  can't  hope  to  do  with  a  donkey." 
She  added  that  she  had  come  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  the 
heiress,  of  whose  points  of  person  she  delivered  a  judgment 
critically  appreciative  as  a  horse-fancier's  on  the  racing  turf. 


244  DIANA    OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"If  a  girl  like  that  holds  to  it,  she's  pretty  sure  to  get  him  at 
last.    It's  no  use  to  pull  his  neck  down  to  the  water." 

Lady  AVathin  delicately  alluded  to  rumors  of  an  entangle- 
ment and  admiration  he  had,  ahem! 

"A  married  woman/'  the  veteran  nodded.  "I  thought  that 
was  off?    She  must  he  a  clever  intriguer  to  keep  him  so  long." 

"She  is  undoubtedly  clever/'  said  Lady  Wathin,  and  it  was 
mumbled  in  her  hearing:  "the  woman  seems  to  have  a  taste 
for  our  family." 

They  agreed  that  they  could  see  nothing  to  he  done.  The 
young  lady  must  wither,  Mrs.  Warwick  have  her  day.  The 
veteran  confided  her  experienced  why  to  Lady  Wathin:  "All 
the  tales  you  tell  of  a  woman  of  that  sort  are  sharp  sauce  to 
the  palates  of  men." 

They  might  be,  to  the  men  of  the  dreadful,  gilded  idle 
class! 

Mrs.  "Warwick's  day  appeared  indefinitely  prolonged,  judg- 
ing by  Percy  Dacier's  behavior  to  Miss  Asper.  Lady  Wathin 
watched  them  narrowly  when  she  had  the  chance,  a  little 
ashamed  of  her  sex,  or  indignant  rather  at  his  display  of  court- 
liness in  exchange  for  her  open  betrayal  of  her  preference.  It 
was  almost  to  be  wished  that  she  would  punish  him  by  sacri- 
ficing herself  to  one  of  her  many  brilliant  proposals  of  mar- 
riage. But  such  are  women! — precisely  because  of  his  hold- 
ing back  he  tightened  the  cord  attaching  him  to  her  tenacious 
heart,  ^his  was  the  truth.  For  the  rest,  he  was  gracefully 
courteous;  an  observer  could  perceive  the  charm  he  exercised. 
He  talked  with  a  ready  affability,  latterly  with  greater  social 
ease;  evidently  not  acting  the  indifferent  conqueror,  or  so  con- 
summately acting  it  as  to  mask  the  air.  And  yet  he  was  am- 
bitious; and  he  was  not  rich.  Notoriously  was  he  ambitious, 
and  with  wealth  to  back  him,  a  great  entertaining  house, 
troops  of  adherents,  he  would  gather  influence,  be  propelled 
to  leadership.  The  vexation  of  a  constant  itch  to  speak  to  him 
on  the  subject,  and  the  recognition  that  he  knew  it  all  as 
well  as  she,  tormented  Lady  Wathin.  He  gave  her  comfort- 
ing news  of  her  dear  cousin  in  the  winter. 

"'You  have  heard  from  Mrs.  Warwick?"  she  said. 

He  replied,  "I  had  the  latest  from  Mr.  Eedworth." 

'TVIrs.  Warwick  has  relinquished  her  post?" 

*When  she  does  you  may  be  sure  that  Lady  Dunstane  is 
perfectly  re-established." 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  245 

"She  is  an  excellent  nurse.'' 

"The  best,  I  believe." 

"It  is  a  good  quality  in  sickness." 

"Proof  of  good  all  through." 

"Her  husband  might  have  the  advantage  of  it.  His  state  is 
really  pathetic.  If  she  has  feeling,  and  could  only  be  made 
aware,  she  might  perhaps  be  persuaded  to  pass  from  the  friend- 
ly to  the  wifely  duty." 

Mr.  Dacier  bent  his  head  to  listen,  and  he  bowed. 

He  was  fast  in  the  toils;  and,  though  we  have  assurances 
that  evil  cannot  triumph  in  perpetuity,  the  aspect  of  it  thron- 
ing provokes  a  kind  of  despair.  How  strange  if  ultimately  the 
lawyers,  once  busy  about  the  uncle,  were  to  take  up  the  case 
of  the  nephew,  and  this  time  reverse  the  issue,  by  proving  it! 
For  poor  Mr.  Warwick  was  emphatic  on  the  question  of  his 
honor.  It  excited  him  dangerously.  He  was  long-suffering, 
but  with  the  slightest  clue  terrible.  The  unknotting  of  the 
entanglement  might  thus  happen;  and  Constance  Asper  would 
welcome  her  hero  still. 

Meanwhile  there  was  actually  nothing  to  be  done:  a  de- 
plorable absence  of  motive  villainy;  apparently  an  absence  of 
the  beneficent  Power  directing  events  to  their  proper  termi- 
nation. Lady  Wathin  heard  of  her  cousin's  having  been  re- 
moved to  Cowes  in  May,  for  light  Solent  and  Channel  voyages 
on  board  Lord  Esquart's  yacht.  She  heard  also  of  heavy 
failures  and  convulsions  in  the  City  of  London,  quite  un- 
conscious that  the  Fates,  or  agents  of  the  Providence  she  in- 
voked to  precipitate  the  catastrophe,  were  then  beginning 
cavernously^  their  performance  of  the  part  of  villain  in  Diana's 
history. 

Diana  and  Emma  enjoyed  happy  quiet  saiKngs  under  May 
breezes  on  the  many-colored  southwestern  waters,  heart  in 
heart  again;  the  physical  weakness  of  the  one,  the  moral  weak- 
ness of  the  other,  creating  that  mutual  dependency  which 
makes  friendship  a  pulsating  tie.  Diana's  confession  had  come 
of  her  letter  to  Emma.  When  the  latter  was  able  to  examine 
her  correspondence,  Diana  brought  her  the  heap  for  perusal — 
her  own  sealed  scribble,  throbbing  with  all  the  fatal  might- 
have-been,  under  her  eyes.  She  could  have  concealed  and  de- 
stroyed it.  She  sat  beside  her  friend,  awaiting  her  turn,  hear- 
ing her  say  at  the  superscription,  "Your  writing,  Tony?"  and 
she  nodded.     She  was  asked,  "Shall  I  read  it?"     She  an- 


246  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

swered,  "Eead."  They  were  soon  locked  in  an  embrace. 
Emma  had  no  perception  of  coldness  through  those  brief  dry 
lines;  her  thought  was  of  the  matter. 

"The  danger  is  over  now?^^  she  said. 

"Yes,  that  danger  is  over  now.^' 

"You  have  weathered  it?'^ 

"I  love  him." 

Emma  dropped  a  heavy  sigh  in  pity  of  her,  remotely  in 
compassion  for  Eedworth,  the  loving  and  unbeloved.  She 
was  too  humane  and  wise  of  our  nature  to  chide  her  Tony 
for  having  her  sex's  heart.  She  had  charity  to  bestow  on 
women;  in  defense  of  them  against  men  and  the  world  it  was 
a  charity  armed  with  the  weapons  of  battle.  The  wife  madly 
stripped  hefore  the  world  hy  a  jealous  husband,  and  left  chain- 
ed to  the  rock,  her  youth  wasting,  her  blood  arrested,  her  sensi- 
bilities chilled  and  assailing  her  uiider  their  multitudinous 
disguises,  and  for  whom  the  world  is  merciless,  called  forth 
Emma's  tenderest  commiseration;  and  that  wife  being  Tony, 
and  stricken  with  the  curse  of  love,  in  other  circumstances 
the  blessing,  Emma  bled  for  her. 

"But  nothing  desperate?"  she  said. 

"No;  you  have  saved  me." 

"I  would  knock  at  death's  doors  again,  and  pass  them,  to 
be  sure  of  that." 

"Kiss  me;  you  may  be  sure.  I  would  not  put  my  lips  to 
your  cheek  if  there  were  danger  of  my  faltering." 

"But  you  love  him." 

"I  do:  and  because  I  love  him  I  will  not  let  him  be  fet- 
tered to  me." 

"You  will  see  him." 

"Do  not  imagine  that  his  persuasions  undermined  your 
Tony.    I  am  subject  to  panics." 

"Was  it  your  husband?" 

"I  had  a  visit  from  Lady  Wathin.  She  knows  him.  She 
came  as  peacemaker.  She  managed  to  hint  at  his  authority. 
Then  came  a  letter  from  him — of  supplication,  interpene- 
trated with  the  hint:  a  suffused  atmosphere.  Upon  that,  un- 
expected by  me,  my — let  me  call  him  so  once,  forgive  me! — 
lover  came.  Oh!  he  loves  me,  or  did  then.  Percy!  He  had 
been  told  that  I  should  be  claimed.  I  felt  myself  the  crea- 
ture I  am — a  wreck  of  marriage.  But  I  fancied  I  could 
serve  him: — I  saw  golden.    My  vanity  was  the  chief  traitor. 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  247 

Cowardice  of  course  played  a  part.  In  few  things  that  we 
do,  where  self  is  concerned,  will  cowardice  not  be  found.  And 
the  hallucination  colors  it  to  seem  a  lovely  heroism.  That  was 
the  second  time  Mr.  Eedworth  arrived.  I  am  always  at  Cross- 
ways,  and  he  rescues  me;  on  this  occasion  unknowingly." 

"There's  a  divinity,  .  .  ."  said  Emma,  "When  I  think 
of  it  I  perceive  that  Patience  is  our  beneficent  fairy  god- 
mother, who  brings  us  our  harvest  in  the  long  result." 

"My  dear,  does  she  bring  us  our  laborers'  rations  to  sus- 
tain us  for  the  day?"  said  Diana. 

"Poor  fare,  but  enough." 

"I  fear  I  was  born  godmotherless." 

"You  have  stores  of  patience,  Tony;  only  now  and  then  fits 
of  desperation." 

"My  nature's  frailty,  the  gap  in  it:  we  will  give  it  no  fine 
names — they  cover  our  pitfalls.  I  am  open  to  be  carried  on 
a  tide  of  unreasonableness  when  the  coward  cries  out.  But 
I  can  say,  dear,  that  after  one  rescue  a  similar  temptation  is 
unlikely  to  master  me.  I  do  not  subscribe  to  the  world's  de- 
crees for  love  of  the  monster,  though  I  am  beginning  to  un- 
derstand the  dues  of  allegiance.  We  have  ceased  to  write  let- 
ters.   You  may  have  faith  in  me." 

"I  have,  with  my  whole  soul,"  said  Emma. 

So  the  confession  closed;  and  in  the  present  instance  there 
were  not  any  forgotten  chambers  to  be  unlocked  and  ran- 
sacked for  addenda  confessions. 

The  subjects  discoursed  of  by  the  two  endeared  the  hours 
to  them.  They  were  aware  that  the  English  of  the  period 
would  have  laughed  a  couple  of  women  to  scorn  for  ventur- 
ing on  them,  and  they  were  not  a  little  hostile  in  consequence, 
and  shot  their  epigrams  profusely,  applauding  the  keener  that 
appeared  to  score  the  giant  bulk  of  their  intolerant  enemv — 
who  holds  the  day  but  not  the  morrow.  Us,  too,  he  holds  for 
the  day,  to  punish  us  if  we  have  temporal  cravings.  He  scat- 
ters his  gifts  to  the  abject;  tossing  to  us  rebels  bare  dog- 
biscuit.  But  the  life  of  the  spirit  is  beyond  his  region;  we 
have  our  morrow  in  his  day  when  we  crave  nought  of  him. 
Diana  and  Emma  delighted  to  discover  that  they  were  each 
the  rebel  of  their  earlier  and  less  experienced  years,  each  a 
member  of  the  malcontent  minor  faction,  the  salt  of  earth,  to 
whom  their  salt  must  serve  for  nourishment,  as  they  admitted, 
relishing  it  determinedly,  not  without  gratification. 


248  DIAN;A    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

Sir  Liikin  was  busy  upon  his  estate  in  Scotland.  They  sum- 
moned young  Arthur  Rhodes  to  the  island  that  he  might  have 
a  taste  of  the  new  scenes.  Diana  was  always  wishing  for  his 
instruction  and  refreshment;  and  Redworth  came  to  spend  a 
Saturday  and  Sunday  with  them,  and  showed  his  disgust  of  the 
idle  boy,  as  usual,  at  the  same  time  consulting  them  on  the 
topic  of  furniture  for  the  Berkshire  mansion  he  had  recently 
bought,  rather  vaunting  the  Spanish  pictures  his  commis- 
sioner in  Madrid  was  transmitting.  The  pair  of  rebels,  vexed 
by  his  treatment  of  the  respectful  Junior,  took  him  for  an  in- 
carnation of  their  enemy,  and  pecked  and  worried  the  man 
astonishingly.  He  submitted  to  it  like  the  placable  giant. 
Yes,  he  was  a  Liberal,  and  furnishing  and  decorating  the  house 
in  the  stability  of  which  he  trusted.  Why  not?  We  must 
accept  the  world  as  it  is,  try  to  improve  it  by  degrees.  Not  so: 
humanity  will  not  wait  for  you,  the  victims  are  shrieking  be- 
neath the  bricks  of  your  enormous  edifice,  behind  the  can- 
vas of  your  pictures.  "But  you  may  really  say  that  luxurious 
3^achting  is  an  odd  kind  of  insurgency,"  avowed  Diana.  "It's 
the  tangle  we  are  in." 

"It's  the  coat  we  have  to  wear;  and  why  fret  at  it  for  be- 
ing comfortable?" 

"I  don't  half  enough  when  I  think  of  my  shivering  neigh- 
bors." 

"Money  is,  of  course,  a  rough  test  of  virtue,"  said  Red- 
worth.    "We  have  no  other  general  test." 

Money!  The  ladies  proclaimed  it  a  mere  material  test;  Di- 
ana, gazing  on  sunny  sea,  with  an  especial  disdain.  And  name 
us  your  sort  of  virtue.  There  is  more  virtue  in  poverty.  He 
denied  that.  Inflexibly  British,  he  declared  money,  and  also 
the  art  of  getting  money,  to  be  hereditary  virtues,  deserving 
of  their  reward.  The  reward,  a  superior  wealth  and  its  fruits? 
Yes,  the  power  to  enjoy  and  spread  enjo3rment:  and  let  idle- 
ness envy  both!  He  abused  idleness,  and  by  implication  the 
dilettante  insurgency  fostering  it.  However,  he  was  compen- 
satingly  heterodox  in  his  view  of  the  law's  persecution  of  wom- 
en; their  pertinacious  harpings  on  the  theme  had  brought  him 
to  that;  and  in  consideration  of  the  fact,  as  they  looked  from 
yacht  .to  shore,  of  their  being  rebels  participating  largely  in 
the  pleasures  of  the  tyrant's  court,  they  allowed  him  to  si- 
lence them  and  forgave  him. 

Thoughts  upon  money  and  idleness  were  in  confusion  with 


DIANA   OF   THE    CR0SSWAY3.  249 

Diana.  She  had  a  household  to  support  in  London,  and  she 
was  not  working;  she  could  not  touch  The  Cantatrice  while 
Emma  was  near.  Possibly,  she  again  ejaculated,  the  Eed- 
worths  of  the  w^orld  were  right:  the  fruitful  labors  were  with 
the  mattock  and  hoe,  or  the  mind  directing  them.  It  was  a 
crushing  invasion  of  materialism;  so  she  proposed  a  sail  to  the 
coast  of  France,  and  thither  they  flew,  touching  Cherbourg, 
Alderney,  Sark,  Guernsey,  and  sighting  the  low  Brittany  rocks. 
Memorable  days  to  Arthur  Rhodes.  He  saw  perpetually  the 
one  golden  center  in  new  scenes.  He  heard  her  voice,  he  treas- 
ured her  sayings;  her  gestures,  her  play  of  lip  and  eyelid,  her 
lift  of  head,  lightest  movements,  were  imprinted  on  him,  sure- 
ly as  the  heavens  are  mirrored  in  the  quiet  seas,  firmly  and 
richly  as  earth  answers  to  the  sprinkled  grain.  For  he  was 
blissfully  athirst,  untroubled  by  a  hope.  She  gave  him  more 
than  she  knew  of:  a  present  that  kept  its  beating  heart  into 
the  future;  a  height  of  sky,  a  belief  in  nobility,  permanent 
through  manhood  down  to  age.  She  was  his  foam-born  god- 
dess of  those  leaping  waters;  differently  hued,  crescented,  a 
different  influence.  He  had  a  happy  week,  and  it  charmed 
Diana  to  hear  him  tell  her  so.  In  spite  of  Redworth,  she  had 
faith  in  the  fruit-bearing  powers  of  a  time  of  simple  happi- 
ness, and  shared  the  youth's  in  reflecting  it.  Only  the  hap- 
piness must  be  simple,  that  of  the  glass  to  the  lovely  face:  no 
straining  of  arms  to  retain,  no  heaving  of  the  bosom  in  vacancy. 
His  poverty  and  capacity  for  pure  enjoyment  led  her  to 
think  of  him  almost  clingingly  when  hard  news  reached  her 
from  the  quaint  old  City  of  London,  w^hich  despises  poverty 
and  authorcraft  and  all  mean  adventurers,  and  bows  to  the 
lordly  merchant,  the  mighty  financier,  Redworth's  incarna- 
tion of  the  \drtues.  Happy  days  on  board  the  yacht  Clarissa! 
Diana  had  to  recall  them  with  effort.  They  who  sow  their 
money  for  a  promising  high  percentage  have  built  their  habi- 
tations on  the  sides  of  the  most  eruptive  mountain  in  Europe. 
Aetna  supplies  more  certain  harvests,  wrecks  fewer  vineyards 
and  peaceful  dwellings.  The  greed  of  gain  is  our  volcano. 
Her  wonder  leapt  up  at  the  slight  inducement  she  had  received 
to  embark  her  money  in  this  company;  a  South  American 
mine,  collapsed  almost  wdthin  hearing  of  the  trumpets  of  pros- 
pectus, after  two  punctual  pa3^ments  of  the  half-yearly  inter- 
est. A  Mrs.  Ferdinand  Cherson,  an  elder  sister  of  the  pretty 
Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett,  had  talked  to  her  of  the  cost  of  things 


250  DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

one  afternoon  at  Lady  Singleby's  garden-party,  and  spoken 
of  the  City  as  the  place  to  help  to  swell  an  income,  if  only  you 
had  an  acquaintance  with  some  of  the  chief  City  men.  The 
great  mine  was  named,  and  the  rush  for  allotments.  She 
knew  a  couple  of  the  directors.  They  vowed  to  her  that  ten 
per  cent,  was  a  trifle;  the  fortune  to  be  expected  out  of  the 
mine  was  already  clearly  estimable  at  forties  and  fifties.  For 
their  part  they  anticipated  cent,  per  cent.  Mrs.  Cherson  said 
she  wanted  money,  and  had  therefore  invested  in  the  mine. 
It  seemed  so  consequent,  the  cost  of  things  being  enormous! 
She  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett,  owned  husbands  who 
did  their  bidding,  because  of  their  having  the  brains,  it  might 
be  understood.  Thus  five  thousand  pounds  invested  would 
speedily  bring  five  thousand  pounds  per  annum.  Diana  had 
often  dreamed  of  the  City  of  London  as  the  seat  of  magic; 
and  taking  the  City's  contempt  for  authorcraft  and  the  in- 
tangible as,  from  its  point  of  view,  justly  founded,  she  had 
mixed  her  dream  strangely  with  an  ancient  notion  of  the  City's 
probity.  Her  broker's  shaking  head  did  not  damp  her  ardor 
for  shares  to  the  full  amount  of  her  ability  to  purchase.  She 
remembered  her  satisfaction  at  the  allotment;  the  golden 
castle  shot  up  from  this  fountain  mine.  She  had  a  frenzy  for 
mines  and  fished  in  some  English  with  smaller  sums.  ''I  am 
now  a  miner,"  she  had  exclaimed,  between  dismay  at  her 
audacity  and  the  pride  of  it.  Why  had  she  not  consulted  Eed- 
worth?  He  would  peremptorily  have  stopped  the  frenzy  in 
its  first  intoxicating  effervescence.  She,  like  Mrs.  Cherson, 
like  all  women  who  have  plunged  upon  the  cost  of  things, 
wanted  money.  She  naturally  went  to  the  mine.  Address 
him  for  counsel  in  the  person  of  dupe  she  could  not;  shame 
was  a  barrier.  Could  she  tell  him  that  the  prattle  of  a  woman, 
spendthrift  as  Mrs.  Cherson,  had  induced  her  to  risk  her 
money?  Latterly  the  reports  of  Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett  were 
not  of  the  flavor  to  make  association  of  their  names  agreeable 
to  his  hearing. 

She  had  to  sit  down  in  the  buzz  of  her  self-reproaches  and 
amazement  at  the  behavior  of  that  reputable  City,  shrug, 
and  recommenced  the  labor  of  her  pen.  Material  misfortune 
had  this  one  advantage;  it  kept  her  from  speculative  thoughts 
of  her  lover,  and  the  meaning  of  his  absence  and  silence. 

Diana's  perusal  of  the  incomplete  Cantatrice  was  done  with 
the  cold  critical  eye  interpreting  for  the  public.     She  was 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  251 

forced  to  write  on  nevertheless,  and  exactly  in  the  ruts  of  the 
foregoing  matter.  It  propelled  her.  No  longer  perversely,  of 
necessity  she  wrote  her  best,  convinced  that  the  work  was 
doomed  to  unpopularity,  resolved  that  it  should  be  at  least  a 
victory  in  style.  A  fit  of  angry  cynicism  now  and  then  set  her 
composing  phrases  as  baits  for  the  critics  to  quote,  condemna- 
tory of  the  attractiveness  of  the  work.  Her  mood  was  bad. 
In  addition,  she  found  Whitmonby  cool;  he  complained  of  the 
coolness  of  her  letter  of  adieu;  complained  of  her  leaving 
London  so  long.  How  could  she  expect  to  be  his  Queen  of  the 
London  Salon  if  she  lost  touch  of  the  topics?  He  made  no 
other  allusion.  They  were  soon  on  amicable  terms,  at  the  ex- 
pense of  flattering  arts  that  she  had  not  hitherto  practiced. 
But  Westlake  revealed  unimagined  marvels  of  the  odd  corners 
of  the  masculine  bosom.  He  was  the  man  of  her  circle  the 
neatest  in  epigram,  the  widest  of  survey,  an  Oriental  traveler,  a 
distinguished  writer,  and,  if  not  personally  bewitching,  re- 
markably a  gentleman  of  the  world.  He  was  wounded;  he 
said  as  much.  It  came  to  this;  admitting  that  he  had  no 
claims,  he  declared  it  to  be  unbearable  for  him  to  see  another 
preferred.  The  happier  was  unmentioned,  and  Diana  scraped 
his  wound  by  rallying  him.  He  repeated  that  he  asked  only 
to  stand  on  equal  terms  with  the  others;  her  preference  of  one 
was  past  his  tolerance.  She  told  him  that  since  leaving  Lady 
Dunstane  she  had  seen  but  Whitmonby,  Wilmers  and  him. 
He  smiled  sarcastically,  saying  he  had  never  had  a  letter  from 
her,  except  the  formal  one  of  invitation. 

"Powers  of  blarney!  have  you  forsaken  a  daughter  of 
Erin?"  cried  Diana.  "Here  is  a  friend  who  has  a  craving  for 
you,  and  I  talk  sense  to  him.  I  have  written  to  none  of  my  set 
since  I  last  left  London." 

She  pacified  him  by  doses  of  cajolery  new  to  her  tongue. 
She  liked  him,  abhorred  the  thought  of  losing  any  of  her 
friends,  so  the  cajoling  sentences  ran  until  Westlake  betrayed 
an  inflammable  composition,  and  had  to  be  put  out,  and 
smoked  sullenly.  Her  resources  were  tried  in  restoring  him 
to  reason.  The  months  of  absence  from  London  appeared  to 
have  transformed  her  world.  Tonans  was  moderate.  The 
great  editor  rebuked  her  for  her  prolonged  absence  from  Lon- 
don, not  so  much  because  it  discrowned  her  as  Queen  of  the 
Salon,  but  candidly  for  its  rendering  her  service  less  to  him. 
Everything  she  knew  of  men  and  affairs  was  to  him  stale. 


252  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"How  do  you  get  to  the  secrets?'^  she  asked. 

"By  sticking  to  the  center  of  them/'  he  said. 

"But  how  do  you  manage  to  be  in  advance  and  act  the 
prophet?" 

"Because  I  will  have  them  at  any  price,  and  that  is  known." 

She  hinted  at  the  peccant  City  Company. 

"I  think  I  have  checked  the  mining  mania,  as  I  did  the  rail- 
way," said  he;  "and  so  far  it  was  a  public  service.  There's  no 
checking  of  maniacs." 

She  took  her  whipping  within  and  without.  "On  another 
occasion  I  shall  apply  to  you,  Mr.  Tonans." 

"Ah,  there  was  a  time  when  you  could  have  been  a  treasure 
to  me,"  he  rejoined;  alluding  of  course  to  the  Dannisburgh 
days. 

In  dejection,  as  she  mused  on  those  days,  and  on  her  fool- 
ish ambition  to  have  a  London  house  where  her  light  might 
burn,  she  advised  herself,  with  Eedworth's  voice,  to  quit  the 
house,  arrest  expenditure,  and  try  for  happiness  by  burning 
and  shining  in  the  spirit;  devoting  herself,  as  Arthur  Ehodes 
did,  purely  to  literature.     It  became  almost  a  decision. 

Percy  she  had  still  neither  written  to  nor  heard  from,  and 
she  dared  not  hope  to  meet  him.  She  fancied  a  wish  to  have 
tidings  of  his  marriage;  it  would  be  peace,  if  in  desolation. 
Now  that  she  had  confessed  and  given  her  pledge  to  Emma, 
she  had  so  far  broken  with  him  as  to  render  the  holding  him 
chained  a  cruelty,  and  his  reserve  whispered  of  a  rational  ac- 
ceptance of  the  end  between  them.  She  thanked  him  for 
it;  an  act  whereby  she  was  instantly  melted  to  such  softness 
that  a  dread  of  him  haunted  her.  Coward,  take  up  your 
burden  for  armor!  she  called  to  her  poor  dungeoned  self  wail- 
ing to  have  common  nourishment.  She  knew  how  pro- 
digiously it  waxed  on  crumbs;  nay,  on  the  imagination  of 
small  morsels.  By  way  of  chastising  it  she  reviewed  her  life, 
her  behavior  to  her  husband,  until  she  sank  backward  to  a 
depth  deprived  of  air  and  light.  That  life  with  her  husband 
was  a  dungeon  to  her  nature  deeper  than  any  imposed  by  pres- 
ent conditions.  She  was  then  a  revolutionary  to  reach  to  the 
breath  of  day.  She  had  now  to  be  only  not  a  coward,  and  she 
could  breathe  as  others  did.  "Women  who  sap  the  moral  laws 
pull  down  the  pillars  of  the  temple  on  their  sex,"  Emma  had 
said.  Diana  perceived  something  of  her  personal  debt  to 
emulation.    Her  struggles  passed  into  the  doomed  Cantatrice 


DIANiA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  253 

occupying  days  and  nights  under  pressure  for  immediate  pay- 
ment; the  silencing  of  friend  Debit,  ridiculously  calling  him- 
self Credit,  in  contempt  of  sex  and  conduct,  on  the  ground  that 
he  was  he  solely  by  virtue  of  being  she.  He  had  got  a  trick  of 
singing  operatic  solos  in  the  form  and  style  of  the  delightful 
tenor  Tellio,  and  they  were  touching  in  absurdity,  most  real  in 
unreality.     Exquisitely  trilled,  after  Tellio's  manner, 

"The  tradesmen  all  beseech  ye. 
The  landlord,  cook,  and  maid, 
Complete  The  Cantatrice, 
That  they  may  soon  be  paid," 

provoked  her  to  laughter  in  pathos.  He  approached,  posturing 
himself  operatically,  with  perpetual  new  verses,  rhymes  to 
Danvers,  rhymes  to  Madame  Sybille,  the  cook.  Seeing  Tellio 
at  one  of  Henry  Wilmer's  private  concerts,  Diana's  lips 
twitched  to  dimples  at  the  likeness  her  familiar  had  assumed. 
She  had  to  compose  her  countenance  to  talk  to  him;  but  the 
moment  of  song  was  the  trial.  Lady  Singleby  sat  beside  her 
and  remarked,  "You  have  always  fun  going  on  in  you!"  She 
partook  of  the  general  impression  that  Diana  Warwick  was  too 
humorous  to  nurse  a  downright  passion. 

Before  leaving,  she  engaged  Diana  to  her  annual  garden- 
party  of  the  closing  season,  and  there  the  meeting  with  Percy 
occurred,  not  unobserved.  Had  they  been  overheard,  very 
little  to  implicate  them  would  have  been  gathered.  He 
walked  in  full  view  across  the  lawn  to  her,  and  they  presented 
mask  to  mask. 

"The  beauty  of  the  day  tempts  you  at  last,  Mrs.  Warwick." 

"I  have  been  finishing  a  piece  of  work." 

Lovely  weather,  beautiful  dresses;  agreed.  Diana  wore  a 
yellow  robe  with  a  black  bonnet,  and  he  commented  on  the 
becoming  hues;  for  the  first  time  he  noticed  her  dress! 
Lovely  women?  Dacier  hesitated.  One  he  saw.  But  surely 
he  must  admire  Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett  ?  And  who  steps  beside 
her,  transparently  fascinated,  with  visage  at  three-quarters  to 
the  rays  within  her  bonnet?  Can  it  be  Sir  LuMn  Dunstane? 
and  beholding  none  but  his  charmer! 

Dacier  withdrew  his  eyes  thoughtfully  from  the  spectacle, 
and  moved  to  woo  Diana  to  a  stroll.  She  could  not  restrain 
her  feet;  she  was  out  of  the  ring  of  her  courtiers  for  the  mo- 
ment.    He  had  seized  his  opportunity. 


1S54  /^  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"It  is  nearly  a  year!"  he  said. 

"I  have  been  nursing  nearly  all  the  time,  doing  the  work  I 
do  best." 

"Unaltered?" 

"A  year  must  leave  its  marks." 

"Tony!" 

"You  speak  of  a  madwoman,  a  good  eleven  months  dead. 
Let  her  rest.     Those  are  the  conditions." 

"Accepted,  if  I  may  see  her." 

"Honestly  accepted?" 

"Imposed  fatally,  I  have  to  own.  I  have  felt  with  you; 
you  are  the  wiser.  But,  admitting  that,  surely  we  can  meet. 
I  may  see  you?" 

"My  house  has  not  been  shut." 

"I  respected  the  house.     I  distrusted  myself." 

"What  restores  your  confidence?" 

"The  strength  I  draw  from  you." 

One  of  the  beauties  at  a  garden-party  is  lucky  to  get  as 
many  minutes  as  had  passed  in  quietness.  Diana  was  met 
and  captured.  But  those  last  words  of  Percy's  renewed  her 
pride  in  him  by  suddenly  building  a  firm  faith  in  herself. 
Noblest  of  lovers!  she  thought,  and  brooded  on  the  little  that 
had  been  spoken,  the  much  conveyed,  for  a  proof  of  perfect 
truthfulness. 

The  world  had  watched  them.  It  pronounced  them  dis- 
creet if  culpable;  probably  cold  to  the  passion  both.  Of 
Dacier's  coldness  it  had  no  doubt,  and  Diana's  was  presumed 
from  her  comical  flights  of  speech.  She  was  given  to  him 
because  of  the  known  failure  of  her  other  adorers.  He  in  the 
front  rank  of  politicians  attracted  her  with  the  luster  of  his 
ambition;  she  him  with  her  mingling  of  talent  and  beauty. 
An  astute  world;  right  in  the  main,  owing  to  perceptions 
based  upon  brute  nafure;  utterly  astray  in  particulars,  for  the 
reason  that  it  takes  no  count  of  the  soul  of  man  or  woman. 
Hence  its  glee  at  a  catastrophe;  its  poor  stock  of  mercy. 
And  when  no  c^astrophe  follows,  the  prophet,  for  the 
honor  of  the  profession,  must  decry  her  as  cunning  beyond 
aught  yet  revealed  of  a  serpent  sex. 

Save  for  a  word  or  two  the  watchman  might  have  over- 
heard and  trumpeted  his  report  of  their  interview  at  Diana's 
house.  After  the  first  pained  breathing,  when  they  found 
themselves  al^one  in  that  room  where  thoy  had  plighted  their 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  255 

fortunes,  they  talked  allusively  to  define  the  terms  imposed 
on  them  by  Reason.  The  thwarted  step  was  unmentioned; 
it  was  a  past  madness.  But  Wisdom  being  recognized  they 
could  meet.  It  would  be  hard  if  that  were  denied!  They 
talked  very  little  of  their  position;  both  understood  the  mu- 
tual acceptance  of  it;  and,  now,  that  he  had  seen  her  and  was 
again  under  the  spell,  Dacier's  rational  mind,  together  with 
his  delight  in  her  presence,  compelled  him  honorably  to  bow 
to  the  terms.  Only,  as  these  were  severe  upon  lovers,  the  in- 
nocence of  their  meetings  demanded  indemnification  in  fre- 
quency. 

"Come  whenever  you  think  I  can  be  useful,'^  said  Diana. 

They  pressed  hands  at  parting,  firmly  and  briefly,  not  for 
the  ordinary  dactylogy  of  lovers,  but  in  sign  of  the  treaty  of 
amity. 

She  soon  learnt  that  she  had  tied  herself  to  her  costly 
household. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

DIALOGUE  ROUND  THE  SUBJECT  OF  A  PORTRAIT,  WITH 
SOME  INDICATIONS  OF  THE  TASK  FOR  DIANA. 

An  enamored  Egeria,  who  is  not  a  princess  in  her  worldy 
state  nor  a  goddess  by  origin,  has  to  play  one  of  those  parts 
which  strain  the  woman's  faculties  past  naturalness.  She 
must  never  expose  her  feelings  to  her  lover;  she  must  make 
her  counsel  weighty;  otherwise  she  is  little  his  nymph  of  the 
pure  wells,  and  what  she  soon  may  be  the  world  will  say. 
She  has  also,  most  imperatively,  to  dazzle  him  without  the 
betrayal  of  artifice,  where  simple  spontaneousness  is  beyond 
conjuring.  But  feelings  that  are  constrained  becloud  the 
judgment  besides  arresting  the  fine  jet  of  delivery  where- 
with the  mastered  lover  is  taught  through  his  ears  to  think 
himself  prompted,  and  submit  to  be  controlled,  by  a  creature 
super-feminine.  She  must  make  her  counsel  so  weighty  in 
poignant  praises  as  to  repress  impulses  that  would  rouse  her 
own;  and  her  betraying  impulsiveness  was  a  subject  of  re- 
flection to  Diana  after  she  had  given  Percy  Dacier,  meta- 
phorically, the  key  of  her  house.  Only  as  his  true  Egeria 
could    she    receive    him.     She  was  therefore  grateful,  she 


256  DIANA    OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

thanked  and  venerated  this  noblest  of  lovers,  for  his  not 
pressing  to  the  word  of  love,  and  so  strengthening  her  to 
point  his  mind,  freshen  his  moral  energies,  and  inspirit  him. 
His  chivalrous  acceptance  of  the  conditions  of  their  renewed 
intimacy  was  a  radiant  knightliness  to  Diana,  elevating  her 
with  a  living  image  for  worship — he  so  near  once  to  being 
the  absolute  lord  of  her  destinies!  How  to  reward  him  was 
her  sole  dangerous  thought.  She  prayed  and  strove  that  she 
might  give  him  of  her  best,  to  practically  help  him;  and  she 
had  reason  to  suppose  she  could  do  it  from  the  visible  effect 
of  her  phrases.  He  glistened  in  repeating  them;  he  had 
fallen  into  the  habit — before  witnesses  too;  in  the  presence 
of  Miss  Paynham,  who  had  taken  earnestly  to  the  art  of  paint- 
ing, and  obtained  her  dear  Mrs.  Warwick's  promise  of  a  few 
sittings  for  the  sketch  of  a  portrait,  near  the  close  of  the  sea- 
son. "A  very  daring  thing  to  attempt,''  Miss  Paynham  said, 
when  he  Avas  comparing  her  first  outlines,  and  the  beautiful 
breathing  features.  "Even  if  one  gets  the  face,  the  lips  will 
seem  speechless  to  those  who  know  her." 

"If  they  have  no  recollection,"  said  Dacier. 

"I  mean,  the  endeavor  should  be  to  represent  them  at  the 
moment  of  speaking." 

"Put  it  into  the  eyes."     He  looked  at  the  eyes. 

She  looked  at  the  mouth.  "But  it  is  the  mouth  more  than 
the  eyes." 

He  looked  at  the  face.  "Where  there  is  character  you  have 
only  to  study  it  to  be  sure  of  a  likeness." 

"That  is  the  task  with  one  who  utters  jewels,  Mr.  Dacier." 

"Bright  wit,  I  fear,  is  above  the  powers  of  your  art." 

"Still  I  feel  it  could  be  done.     See — now — that!" 

Diana's  lips  had  opened  to  say,  "Confess  me  a  model  model; 
I  am  dissected  while  I  sit  for  portrayal.  I  must  be  for  a 
moment  like  the  frog  of  the  two  countrymen  who  were  dis- 
puting as  to  the  manner  of  his  death,  when  he  stretched  to 
yawn,  upon  which  they  agreed  that  he  had  defeated  the  truth 
for  both  of  them.     I  am  not  quite  inanimate." 

"Irish  countrymen,"  said  Dacier. 

"The  story  adds  that  blows  were  arrested,  so  confer  the  na- 
tionality as  you  please." 

Diana  had  often  to  divert  him  from  a  too  intent  perusal  of 
her  features  with  sparkles  and  stories,  current  or  invented,  to 
serve  the  immediate  purpose. 


DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS.  257 

Miss  Paynham  was  Mrs.  Warwick's  guest  for  a  fortnight, 
and  observed  them  together.  She  sometimes  charitably  laid 
down  her  pencil  and  left  them,  having  forgotten  this  or  that. 
They  were  conversing  of  general  matters  with  their  usual 
crisp  precision  on  her  return,  and  she  was  rather  like  the 
two  countrymen,  in  debating  whether  it  was  excess  of  cool- 
ness or  discreetness;  though  she  was  convinced  of  their  in- 
clinations, and  expected  love  some  day  to  be  leaping  up. 
Diana  noticed  that  she  had  no  reminder  for  leaving  the  room 
when  it  was  Mr.  Eedworth  present.  These  two  had  become 
very  friendly,  according  to  her  hopes;  and  Miss  Paynham  was 
extremely  solicitous  to  draw  suggestions  from  Mr.  Eedworth 
and  win  his  approval. 

"Do  I  appear  likely  to  catch  the  mouth  now,  do  you  think, 
Mr.  Eedworth?" 

He  remarked,  smiling  at  Diana's  expressive  dimple,  that 
the  mouth  was  difficult  to  catch.  He  did  not  gaze  intently. 
Mr.  Eedworth  was  the  genius  of  friendship;  "the  friend  of 
women,"  Mrs.  Warwick  had  said  of  him.  Miss  Paynham 
discovered  it,  as  regarded  herself.  The  portrait  was  his  com- 
mission to  her,  kindly  proposed,  secretly  of  course,  to  give  her 
occupation  and  the  chance  of  winning  a  vogue  with  the  face 
of  a  famous  beauty.  So  many,  however,  were  Mrs.  Warwick's 
visitors,  and  so  lively  the  chatter  she  directed,  that  accurate 
sketching  was  difficult  to  an  amateurish  hand.  Whitmonby, 
Sullivan  Smith,  Westlake,  Henry  Wilmers,  Arthur  Ehodes 
and  other  gentlemen,  literary  and  military,  were  almost  daily 
visitors  when  it  became  known  that  the  tedium  of  the  beautiful 
sitter  required  beguiling  and  there  was  a  certainty  of  finding 
her  at  home.  On  Mrs.  Warwick's  Wednesday  numerous  ladies 
decorated  the  group.  Then  was  heard  such  a  rillet  of  dia- 
logue without  scandal  or  politics  as  nowhere  else  in  Britain; 
all  vowed  it  subsequently;  for  to  the  remembrance  it  seemed 
magical.  Not  a  breath  of  scandal  and  yet  the  liveliest  flow. 
Lady  Pennon  came  attended  by  Mr.  Alexander  Hepburn,  a 
handsome  Scot,  at  whom  Dacier  shot  one  of  his  instinctive 
keen  glances  before  seeing  that  the  hostess  had  mounted  a 
transient  color.  Mr.  Hepburn,  in  settling  himself  on  his 
chair  rather  too  briskly,  contrived  the  next  minute  to  break 
a  precious  bit  of  China  standing  by  his  elbow;  and  Lady  Pen- 
non cried  out,  with  sympathetic  anguish,  "Oh,  my  dear,  what 
a  trial  for  you!" 

17 


258  DlANiA   OP  THE   CROSSWAYS. 

"Brittle  is  foredoomed,"  said  Diana  unruffled. 

She  deserved  compliments,  and  would  have  had  them  if 
she  had  not  wounded  the  most  jealous  and  petulant  of  her 
courtiers. 

"Then  the  Turk  is  a  sapient  custodian!"  said  Westlake, 
vexed  with  her  flush  at  the  entrance  of  the  Scot. 

Diana  sedately  took  his  challenge.  "We,  Mr.  Westlake, 
have  the  philosophy  of  ownership." 

Mr.  Hepburn  penitentially  knelt  to  pick  up  the  fragments, 
and  Westlake  murmured  over  his  head:  "As  long  as  it  is  we 
who  are  the  cracked." 

"Did  we  not  start  from  China  ?" 

"We  were  consequently  precipitated  to  Stamboul." 

"You  try  to  elude  the  lesson." 

"I  remember  my  first  pedagogue  telling  me  so  when  he 
rapped  the  book  on  my  cranium." 

"The  mark  of  the  book  is  not  a  disfigurement." 

It  was  gently  worded,  and  the  shrewder  for  it.  The  mark 
of  the  book,  if  not  a  disfigurement,  was  a  characteristic  of 
Westlake's  fashion  of  speech.  Whitmonby  nodded  twice  for 
signification  of  a  palpable  hit  in  that  bout,  and  he  noted 
within  him  the  foolishness  of  obtruding  the  remotest  allusion 
to  our  personality  when  crossing  the  foils  with  a  woman. 
She  is  down  on  it  like  the  lightning,  quick  as  she  is  in  her  con- 
tracted circle;  politeness  guarding  her  from  a  riposte. 

Mr.  Hepburn  apologized  very  humbly,  after  regaining  his 
chair.  Diana  smiled  and  said,  "Incidents  in  a  drawing-room 
are  prize-shots  at  Dullness." 

"And  in  a  dining-room,  too,"  added  Sullivan  Smith.  "I 
was  one  day  at  a  dinner-party,  apparently  of  undertakers 
hired  to  mourn  over  the  joints  and  the  birds  in  the  dishes, 
when  the  ceiling  came  down,  and  we  all  sprang  up  merry  as 
crickets.     It  led  to  a  pretty  encounter  and  a  real  prize-shot." 

"Does  that  signify  a  duel?"  asked  Lady  Pennon. 

"  'Twould  be  the  vulgar  title,  to  bring  it  into  discredit  with 
the  populace,  my  lady." 

"Eank  me  one  of  the  populace  then!  I  hate  dueling  and 
rejoice  that  it  is  discountenanced." 

"The  citizens,  and  not  the  populace,  I  think,  Mr.  Sullivan 
Smith  means,"  Diana  said.  "The  citizen  is  generally  right 
in  morals.  My  father  also  was  against  the  practice  when  it 
raged  at  its  ^prettiest.'    I  have  heard  him  relate  a  story  of  a 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  259 

poor  friend  of  his,  who  had  to  march  out  for  a  trifle,  and  said, 
as  he  accepted  the  invitation,  'It's  all  nonsense!'  and  walking 
to  the  measured  length,  'It's  all  nonsense,  you  know!'  and 
when  lying  on  the  ground,  at  his  last  gasp,  'I  told  you  it  was  all 
nonsense!' " 

Sullivan  Smith  leaned  over  to  Whitmonby  and  Dacier  amid 
the  ejaculations,  and  whispered:  "A  lady's  way  of  telling  the 
story! — and  excusable  to  her — she  had  to  Jonah  the  adjective. 
What  the  poor  fellow  said  was  .  .  .  ."  he  murmured 
the  sixty-pounder  adjective,  as  in  the  belly  of  the  whale,  to 
rightly  emphasize  his  noun. 

Whitmonby  nodded  to  the  superior  relish  imparted  by  the 
vigor  of  masculine  veracity  in  narration.  "A  story  for  its  na- 
tive sauce  piquante,"  he  said. 

"Nothing  without  it!" 

They  had  each  a  dissolving  grain  of  contempt  for  women 
compelled  by  their  delicacy  to  spoil  that  kind  of  story  which 
demands  the  piquant  accompaniment  to  flavor  it  racily  and 
make  it  passable.  For  to  see  insipid  mildness  complacently 
swallowed  as  an  excellent  thing,  knowing  the  rich  smack  of 
savor  proper  to  the  story,  is  your  anecdotal  gentleman's  annoy- 
ance. But,  if  the  anecdote  had  supported  him,  Sullivan  Smith 
would  have  let  the  expletive  rest. 

Major  Carew  Mahoney  capped  Mrs.  Warwick's  tale  of  the 
unfortunate  duelist  with  another,  that  confessed  the  practice 
absurd  though  he  approved  of  it;  and  he  cited  Lord  Larrian's 
opinion:     "It  keeps  men  braced  to  civil  conduct." 

"I  would  not  differ  with  the  dear  old  lord;  but  no!  the 
pistol  is  the  scepter  of  the  bully,"  said  Diana. 

Mr.  Hepburn,  with  the  widest  of  eyes  on  her  in  perpetuity, 
warmly  agreed;  and  the  man  was  notorious  among  men  for 
his  contrary  action. 

"Most  righteously  our  Princess  Egeria  distinguishes  her 
reign  by  prohibiting  it,"  said  Lady  Singleby. 

"And  how,"  Sullivan  Smith  sighed  heavily,  "how,  I'd  ask, 
are  ladies  to  be  protected  from  the  bully?" 

He  was  beset:  "So  it  was  all  for  us?  all  in  consideration 
for  our  benefit?" 

He  mournfully  exclaimed,  "Why,  surely!" 

"That  is  the  funeral  apology  of  the  Eod,  at  the  close  of 
every  barbarous  chapter,"  said  Diana. 

"Too  fine  in  mind,  too  fat  in  body;   that  is  a  consequence 


260  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

with  men,  dear  madam.  The  conqueror  stands  to  his  weapons 
or  he  loses  his  possessions." 

"Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  jumps  at  his  pleasure  from  the  spe- 
cial to  the  general,  and  will  be  back,  if  we  follow  him.  Lady 
Pennon.  It  is  the  trick  men  charge  to  women,  showing  that 
they  can  resemble  us." 

Lady  Pennon  thumped  her  knee.  "Not  a  bit.  There's  no 
resemblance,  and  they  know  nothing  of  us." 

"Women  are  a  blank  to  them,  I  believe,"  said  Whitmonby, 
treacherously  bowing;  and  Westlake  said,  "Traces  of  a  singu- 
lar scrawl  have  been  observed  when  they  were  held  in  close 
proximity  to  the  fire." 

"Once,  on  the  top  of  a  coach,"  Whitmonby  resumed,  "I 
heard  a  comely  dame  of  the  period  when  summers  are  ceasing 
threatened  by  her  husband  with  a  divorce  for  omitting  to 
put  sandwiches  in  their  luncheon  basket.  She  made  him  the 
inscrutable  answer:  'Ah,  poor  man!  you  will  go  down 
ignorant  to  your  grave!'  We  laughed,  and  to  this  day  I  can- 
not tell  you  why." 

"That  laugh  was  from  a  basket  lacking  provision — and  I 
think  we  could  trace  our  separation  to  it,"  Diana  said  to  Lady 
Pennon,  who  replied:  "They  expose  themselves;  they  get 
no  nearer  to  the  riddle." 

Miss  Courtney,  a  rising  young  actress,  encouraged  by  a  smile 
from  Mrs.  Warwick,  remarked:  "On  the  stage  we  have  each 
our  parts  equally." 

"And  speaking  parts;  not  personae  mutae." 

"The  stage  has  advanced  in  verisimilitude,"  Henry  Wil- 
mers  added  slyly;  and  Diana  rejoined:  "You  recognize  a 
verisimilitude  of  the  mirror  when  it  is  in  advance  of  reality. 
Flatter  the  sketch.  Miss  Paynham,  for  a  likeness  to  be  seen. 
Probably  there  are  still  Old  Conservatives  who  would  prefer 
the  personation  of  us  by  boys." 

"I  don't  know,"  Westlake  affected  dubiousness.  "I  have 
heard  that  a  step  to  the  riddle  is  gained  by  a  serious  contem- 
plation of  boys." 

"Serious?" 

"That  is  the  doubt." 

"The  doubt  throws  its  light  on  the  step!" 

"I  advise  them  not  to  take  any  leap  from  their  step,"  said 
Lady  Pennon. 

"It  would  be  a  way  of  learning  that  we  are  no  wiser  than 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  261 

our  sires;  but  perhaps  too  painful  a  way,"  Whitmonby  ob- 
served. "Poor  Mountford  Wilts  boasted  of  knowing  women; 
and  he  married.  To  jump  into  the  mouth  of  the  enigma  is 
not  to  read  it." 

"You  are  figures  of  conceit  when  you  speculate  on  us,  Mr. 
Whitmonby." 

"An  occupation  of  our  leisure,  my  lady,  for  your  amuse- 
ment." 

"The  leisure  of  the  humming-top,  a  thousand  to  the  min- 
ute, with  the  pretense  that  it  sleeps!"  Diana  said. 

"The  sacrilegious  hand  to  strip  you  of  your  mystery  is 
withered  as  it  stretches,"  exclaimed  Westlake.  "The  sage 
and  the  devout  are  in  accord  for  once." 

"And,  w^hichever  of  the  two  I  may  be,  I'm  one  of  them, 
happy  to  do  my  homage  blindfold!"  Sullivan  Smith  waved 
the  sign  of  it. 

Diana  sent  her  eyes  over  him  and  Mr.  Hepburn,  seeing 
Dacier.  "That  rosy  mediaevalism  seems  the  utmost  we  can 
expect."  An  instant  she  saddened,  foreboding  her  words  to 
be  ominous,  because  of  suddenly  thirsting  for  a  modern  cry 
from  him,  the  silent.  She  quitted  her  woman's  fit  of  earnest- 
ness, and  took  to  the  humor  that  pleased  him.  "Aslauga's 
knight,  at  his  blind  man's  buff  of  devotion,  catches  the  hem 
of  the  tapestry  and  is  found  by  his  lady  kissing  it  in  a  trance 
of  homage  five  hours'  long.  Sir  Hilary  of  Agincourt,  re- 
turned from  the  wars  to  his  castle  at  midnight,  hears  that 
the  chatelaine  is  away  dancing,  and  remains  with  all  his  men 
mounted  in  the  courtyard  till  the  gray  morn  brings  her  back! 
Adorable!  We  had  a  flag  flying  in  those  days.  Since  men 
began  to  fret  the  riddle  they  have  hauled  it  down  half-mast. 
Soon  we  shall  behold  a  bare  pole  and  hats  on  around  it.  That 
is  their  solution." 

A  smile  circled  at  the  hearing  of  Lady  Singleby  say,  '^ell! 
I  am  all  for  our  own  times,  however  literal  the  men." 

"We  are  tw^o  different  species!"  thumped  Lady  Pennon, 
swimming  on  the  theme.  "I  am  sure  I  read  what  they  write 
of  women!     And  their  heroines!" 

Lady  Esquart  acquiesced:  "We  are  utter  fools  or  horrid 
knaves.'^ 

"Nature's  original  hieroglyphs — which  have  that  appear- 
ance to  the  peruser,"  W^estlake  assented. 

"And  when  they  would  decipher  us,  and  they  hit  on  one 


262  DIAN'A   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

of  our  ^arts/  the  literary  pirouette  they  perform  is  memor- 
able. Diana  looked  invitingly  at  Dacier.  "But  I  for  one 
discern  a  possible  relationship  and  a  likeness." 

"I  think  it  exists — behind  a  curtain,"  Dacier  replied. 

"Before  the  era  of  the  Nursery.  Liberty  to  grow;  inde- 
pendence is  the  key  of  the  secret." 

"And  what  comes  after  the  independence?"  he  inquired. 

"Whitmonby,  musing  that  some  distraction  of  an  earnest 
incentive  spoilt  Mrs.  Warwick's  wit,  informed  him:  "The 
two  different  species  then  break  their  shallow  armistice  and 
join  the  shock  of  battle  for  possession  of  the  earth,  and  we 
are  outnumbered  and  exterminated,  to  a  certainty.  So  I  am 
against  independence." 

"Socially  a  Mussulman,  subject  to  explosions!"  Diana  said. 
*'So  the  eternal  duel  between  us  is  maintained,  and  men  will 
protest  that  they  are  for  civilization.  Dear  me,  I  should  like 
to  write  a  sketch  of  the  women  of  the  future — don't  be  afraid! 
the  far  future.     What  a  different  earth  you  will  see!" 

And  very  different  creatures!  the  gentlemen  unanimously 
surmised.  Westlake  described  the  fairer  portion,  no  longer 
the  weaker;  frightful  hosts. 

Diana  promised  him  a  sweeter  picture,  if  ever  she  brought 
her  hand  to  paint  it. 

"You  would  be  offered  up  to  the  English  national  hangman, 
Jehoiachim  Sneer,"  interposed  Arthur  Ehodes,  evidently  fir- 
ing a  gun  too  big  for  him,  of  premeditated  charging,  as  his 
patroness  perceived;  but  she  knew  him  to  be  smarting  under 
recent  applications  of  the  swish  of  Mr.  Sneer,  and  that  he 
rushed  to  support  her.  She  covered  him  by  saying,  "If  he 
has  to  be  encountered  he  kills  none  but  the  cripple,"  where- 
with the  dead  pause  ensuing  from  a  dose  of  outlandish  speech 
in  good  company  was  bridged,  though  the  youth  heard  West- 
lake  mutter  unpleasantly,  "Jehoiachim,"  and  had  to  endure  a 
stare  of  Dacier's,  who  did  not  conceal  his  want  of  comprehen- 
sion of  the  place  he  occupied  in  Mrs.  Warwick's  gatherings. 

"They  know  nothing  of  us  whatever!"  Lady  Pennon  harped 
on  her  dictum. 

"They  put  us  in  a  case  and  profoundly  study  the  captive 
creature,"  said  Diana,  '^ut  would  any  man  understand 
this?  .  .  ."  She  dropped  her  voice  and  drew  in  the  heads 
of  Lady  Pennon,  Lady  Singleby,  Lady  Esquart,  and  Miss 
Courtney:    "Eeal  woman's  nature  speaks.    A  maid  of  mine 


DIANA    OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  263 

had  a  ^follower.'  She  was  a  good  girl;  I  was  anxious  about 
her  and  asked  her  if  she  could  trust  him.  'Oh,  yes,  ma'am,' 
she  replied,  *I  can;  he's  quite  like  a  female/  I  longed  to  see 
the  young  man,  to  tell  him  he  had  received  the  highest  of 
eulogies." 

The  ladies  appreciatingly  declared  that  such  a  tale  was  be- 
yond the  understandings  of  men.  Miss  Paynham  primmed 
her  mouth,  admitting  to  herself  her  inability  to  repeat  such  a 
tale;  an  act  that  she  deemed  not  "quite  like  a  lady."  She  had 
previously  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs.  Warwick,  with 
all  her  generous  qualities,  was  deficient  in  delicate  sentiment — 
owing  perhaps  to  her  coldness  of  temperament.  Like  Dacier, 
also,  she  failed  to  comprehend  the  patronage  of  Mr.  Ehodes; 
it  led  to  suppositions;  indefinite  truly,  and  not  calumnious 
at  all;  but  a  young  poet,  rather  good-looking  and  well  built, 
is  not  the  same  kind  of  wing-chick  as  a  young  actress  like  Miss 
Courtney — Mrs.  Warwick's  latest  shieldling;  he  is  hardly  en- 
rolled for  the  reason  that  was  assumed  to  sanction  Mrs.  War- 
wick's maid  in  the  encouragement  of  her  follower.  Miss 
Paynham  sketched  on,  with  her  thoughts  in  her  bosom;  a 
damsel  castigatingly  pursued  by  the  idea  of  sex  as  the  direct 
motive  of  every  act  of  every  person  surrounding  her;  deduc- 
tively, therefore,  that  a  certain  form  of  the  impelling  passion, 
mild  or  terrible,  or  capricious,  or  it  might  be  less  pardonable, 
was  unceasingly  at  work  among  the  human  couples  up  to  de- 
crepitude— and  she  too  frequently  hit  the  fact  to  doubt  her 
gift  of  reading  into  them.  Mr.  Dacier  was  plain,  and  the  state 
of  young  Mr.  Rhodes;  and  the  Scottish  gentleman  was  at  least 
a  vehement  admirer.  But  she  penetrated  the  breast  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Redworth  as  well — mentally  tore  his  mask  of  friend- 
ship to  shreds.  He  was  kind  indeed  in  commissioning  her 
to  do  the  portrait.  His  desire  for  it,  and  his  urgency  to  have 
the  features  exactly  given,  besides  the  inf requency  of  his  visits 
of  late,  when  a  favored  gentleman  was  present,  were  the  be- 
traying signs.  Deductively,  moreover,  the  lady  who  inspired 
the  passion  in  numbers  of  gentlemen  and  set  herself  to  win 
their  admiration  with  her  lively  play  of  dialogue  must  be 
coquettish;  she  could  hold  them  only  by  coldness.  Anec- 
dotes, epigrams,  drolleries,  do  not  bubble  to  the  lips  of  a  woman 
who  is  under  an  emotional  spell;  rather  they  prove  that  she 
has  the  spell  for  casting.  It  suited  Mr.  Dacier,  Miss  Paynham 
thought;  it  was  cruel  to  Mr.  Redworth;  at  whom,  of  all  her 


264  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSS  WAYS. 

circle,  the  beautiful  woman  looked,  when  speaking  to  him, 
sometimes  tenderly. 

"Beware  the  silent  one  of  an  assembly!"  Diana  had  written. 
She  did  not  think  of  her  words  while  Miss  Paynham  continued 
mutely  sketching.  The  silent  ones,  with  much  conversation 
around  them,  have  their  heads  at  work,  critically  perforce; 
the  faster  if  their  hands  are  occupied,  and  the  point  they  lean 
to  do  is  the  pivot  of  their  thoughts.  Miss  Paynham  felt  for 
Mr.  Redworth. 

Diana  was  unaware  of  any  other  critic  present  than  him 
she  sought  to  enliven,  not  unsuccessfully,  notwithstanding 
his  English  objection  to  the  pitch  of  the  converse  she  led 
and  a  suspicion  of  effort  to  support  it; — just  a  doubt,  with 
all  her  easy  voluble  run,  of  the  possibility  of  naturalness  in 
a  continuous  cleverness.  But  he  signified  pleasure,  and  in 
pleasing  him  she  was  happy;  in  the  knowledge  that  she 
dazzled  was  her  sense  of  safety.  Percy  hated  scandal;  he 
heard  none.  He  wanted  stirring,  cheering;  in  her  house  he 
had  it.  He  came  daily;  and,  as  it  was  her  wish  that  new 
themes,  new  flights  of  converse,  should  delight  him  and  show 
her  exhaustless,  to  preserve  her  ascendency,  she  welcomed 
him  without  consulting  the  world.  He  w^as  witness  of  Mr. 
Hepburn's  presentation  of  a  costly  China  vase,  to  repair  the 
breach  in  her  array  of  ornaments,  and  excuse  a  visit.  Judg- 
ing by  the  absence  of  any  blow  within  he  saw  not  a  sign  of 
coquetry.  Some  such  visit  had  been  anticipated  by  the  pres- 
cient woman,  so  there  was  no  reddening.  She  brought  about 
an  exchange  of  sentences  between  him  and  her  furious  ad- 
mirer, sparing  either  of  them  a  glimpse  of  which  was  the 
sacrifice  to  the  other,  amusing  them  both.  Dacier  could  allow 
Mr.  Hepburn  to  out-sit  him;  and  he  left  them,  proud  of  his 
absolute  confidence  in  her. 

She  was  mistaken  in  imagining  that  her  social  vivacity, 
mixed  with  comradeship  of  the  active  intellect,  was  the 
charm  which  kept  Mr.  Percy  Dacier  temperate  when  he  well 
knew  her  to  distinguish  him  above  her  courtiers.  Her 
powers  of  dazzling  kept  him  tame;  they  did  not  stamp  her 
mark  on  him.  He  was  one  of  the  order  of  highly-polished 
men,  ignorant  of  women,  who  are  impressed  for  long  terms 
by  temporary  flashes,  that  hold  them  bound  until  a  fresh 
impression  comes,  to  confirm  or  obliterate  the  preceding.  Af- 
fairs of  the  world  he  could  treat  competently;  he  had  a  head 


DIANA  OF    THE   CROSSWAYS.  265 

for  liigli  politics  and  the  management  of  men;  the  feminine 
half  of  the  world  was  a  confusion  and  a  vexation  to  his  intelli- 
gence, characterless;  and  one  woman  at  last  appearing  de- 
cipherable he  fancied  it  must  be  owing  to  her  possession  of 
character,  a  thing  prized  the  more  in  women  because  of  his 
latent  doubt  of  its  existence.  Character,  that  v»-as  the  mark 
he  aimed  at;  that  moved  him  to  homage  as  neither  sparkling 
wit  nor  incomparable  beauty,  nor  the  unusual  combination, 
did.  To  be  distinguished  by  a  woman  of  character  (beauty 
and  wit  for  jewelry)  was  his  minor  ambition  in  life,  and  if 
Fortune  now  gratified  it  he  owned  to  the  flattery.  It  really 
seemed  by  every  test  that  she  had  the  quality.  Since  the 
day  when  he  beheld  her  by  the  bedside  of  his  dead  uncle,  and 
that  one  on  the  French  sea-sands,  and  again  at  Copsley, 
ghostly  white  out  of  her  wrestle  with  death,  bleeding  holy 
sweat  of  brow  for  her  friend,  the  print  of  her  features  had 
been  on  him  as  an  index  of  depth  of  character,  imposing  re- 
spect and  admiration — a  sentiment  imperiled  by  her  consent 
to  fly  with  him.  Her  subsequent  reserve  until  they  met — by 
an  accident  that  the  lady,  at  any  rate,  was  not  responsible  for 
— proved  the  quality  positively.  And  the  nature  of  her  char- 
acter, at  first  suspected,  vanquished  him  more,  by  comparison, 
than  her  vivid  intellect,  which  he  originally,  and  still  linger- 
ingly,  appreciated  in  condescension,  as  a  singular  accomplish- 
ment, thrilling  at  times,  now  and  then  assailably  feminine. 
But,  after  her  consent  to  a  proposal  that  caused  him  retrospec- 
tive worldly  shudders,  and  her  composed  recognition  of  the 
madness,  a  character  capable  of  holding  him  in  some  awe  was 
real  majesty,  and  it  rose  to  the  clear  heights,  with  her  mental 
attributes  for  satellites.  His  tendency  to  despise  women  was 
wholesomely  checked  by  the  experience  to  justify  him  in  say- 
ing. Here  is  a  worthy  one!  She  was  health  to  him,  as  well  as 
trusty  counsel.  Furthermore,  where  he  respected  he  was  a 
governed  man,  free  of  the  common  masculine  craze  to  scale 
fortresses  for  the  sake  of  lowering  flags.  Whilst  under  his 
impression  of  her  character  he  submitted  honorably  to  the 
ascendency  of  a  lady  whose  conduct  suited  him  and  whose 
preference  flattered;  whose  presence  was  very  refreshing; 
whose  letters  were  a  stimulant.  Her  letters  were  really  run- 
ning well-waters,  not  a  lover's  delusion  of  the  luminous  mind 
of  his  lad}^  They  sparkled  in  review  and  preserved  their 
integrity  under  critical  analysis.     The  reading  of  them  hur- 


266  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

ried  him  in  pursuit  of  her  from  house  to  house  during  the 
autumn;  and,  as  she  did  not  hint  at  the  shadow  his  coming 
cast  on  her,  his  conscience  was  easy.  Regarding  their  future, 
his  political  anxieties  were  a  mountainous  defile,  curtaining 
the  outlook.  They  met  at  Lockton,  where  he  arrived  after  a 
recent  consultation  with  his  chief,  of  whom,  and  the  murmurs 
of  the  Cahinet,  he  spoke  to  Diana  openly,  in  some  dejection. 

*^They  might  see  he  has  heen  breaking  with  his  party  for 
the  last  four  years,"  she  said.  "The  plunge  to  be  taken  is 
tremendous." 

"But  will  he?     He  appears  too  despondent  for  a  header." 

"We  cannot  dance  on  a  quaking  floor." 

"No;  it's  exactly  that  quake  of  the  floor  which  gives  ^much 
qualms'  to  me  as  well,"  said  Dacier. 

"A  treble  Neptune's  power!"  she  rejoined,  for  his  particular 
delectation.  "Enough  if  he  hesitates.  I  forgive  him  his 
nausea.  He  awaits  the  impetus,  and  it  will  reach  him,  and 
soon.  He  will  not  wait  for  the  mob  at  his  heels  I  am  certain. 
A  Minister  who  does  that  is  a  post,  and  goes  down  with  the 
first  bursting  of  the  dam.  He  has  tried  compromise  and  dis- 
covered that  it  does  not  appease  the  Fates;  is  not  even  a  make- 
shift-m ending  at  this  hour.  He  is  a  man  of  nerves,  very 
sensitively  built;  as  quick — quicker  than  a  woman,  I  could 
almost  say — to  feel  the  tremble  of  the  air — forerunner  of  im- 
perative changes." 

Dacier  brightened  fondly.  "You  positively  describe  him; 
paint  him  to  the  life,  without  knowing  him!" 

"I  have  seen  him;   and,  if  I  paint,  whose  are  the  colors?" 

"Sometimes  I  repeat  you  to  him,  and  I  get  all  the  credit," 
said  Dacier. 

"I  glow  with  pride  to  think  of  speaking  anything  that  you 
repeat,"  said  Diana,  and  her  eyes  were  proudly  lusterful. 

Their  love  was  nourished  on  these  mutual  flatteries.  Thin 
food  for  passion!  The  innocence  of  it  sanctioned  the  meet- 
ings and  the  appointments  to  meet.  When  separated  they 
were  interchanging  letters,  formally  worded  in  the  apostrophe 
and  the  termination,  but  throbbingly  full;  or  Diana  thought 
so  of  Percy's  letters  with  grateful  justice;  for  his  manner  of 
opening  his  heart  in  amatory  correspondence  was  to  con- 
fide important  secret  matters,  up  to  which  mark  she  sprang 
to  reply  in  counsel.  He  proved  his  affection  by  trusting  her; 
his  respect  by  his  tempered  style: — "A  Greenland  style  of 


DIAN'A   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  267" 

writing/'  she  had  said  of  an  unhappy  gentleman's  epistolary 
compositions  resembling  it;  and  now  the  same  official  bald- 
ness was  to  her  mind  Italianly  rich;  it  called  forth  such 
volumes. 

Flatteries  that  were  thin  food  for  passion  appeared  the 
simplest  exchanges  of  courtesy;  and  her  meetings  with  her 
lover,  judging  by  the  nature  of  the  discourse  they  held,  so 
consequent  to  their  joint  interest  in  the  great  crisis  antici- 
pated, as  to  rouse  her  indignant  surprise  and  a  turn  for  down- 
right rebellion  when  the  Argus  world  signified  the  fact  of  its 
having  one  eye,  or  more,  wide  open. 

Debit  and  Credit,  too,  her  buzzing  familiars,  insisted  on  an 
audience  at  each  ear,  and  at  the  house-door,  on  her  return  to 
London. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

SHOWS  THE  APPROACHES  OF  THE  POLITICAL  AND  THE 
DOMESTIC  CRISIS  IN  COMPANY. 

There  was  not  much  talk  of  Diana  between  Lady  Dunstane 
and  her  customary  visitor  Tom  Redworth  now.  She  was 
shy  in  speaking  of  the  love-stricken  woman,  and  more  was  in 
his  mind  for  thought  than  for  speech.  She  sometimes  won- 
dered how  much  he  might  know,  ending  with  the  reflection 
that  little  passing  around  was  unknown  to  him.  He  had  to 
shut  his  mind  against  thought,  against  all  meditation  upon 
Mrs.  Warwick;  it  was  based  scientifically  when  speculating 
and  calculating,  on  the  material  element — a  talisman.  Men 
and  women  crossing  the  high  seas  of  life  he  had  found  most 
readable  under  that  illuminating  inquiry — as  to  their  means. 
An  inspector  of  seaworthy  ships  proceeds  in  like  manner. 
Whence  could  the  money  come?  He  could  not  help  the  bent 
of  his  mind;  but  he  could  avoid  subjecting  her  to  the  talis- 
manic  touch.  The  girl  at  the  Dublin  ball,  the  woman  at  the 
fire-grate  of  The  Crossways,  both  in  one  w^ere  his  Diana.  Now 
and  then,  hearing  an  ugly  whisper,  his  manful  sympathy  with 
the  mere  woman  in  her  imprisoned  liberty  defended  her  des- 
perately from  charges  not  distinctly  formulated  within  him: — 
''She's  not  made  of  stone."  That  was  a  height  of  self-abne- 
gation to  shake  the  poor  fellow  to  his  roots;  but,  then,  he  had 


268  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

no  hopes  of  his  own;  and  he  stuck  to  it.  Her  choice  of  a 
man  like  Dacier,  too,  of  whom  Redworth  judged  highly, 
showed  nobility.  She  irradiated  the  man;  but  no  baseness 
could  be  in  such  an  alliance.  If  allied,  they  were  bound  to- 
gether for  good.  The  tie — supposing  a  villain  world  not 
wrong — was  only  not  the  sacred  tie  because  of  impediments. 
The  tie! — he  deliberated,  and  said  stoutly.  No.  ^len  of  Red- 
worth's  nature  go  through  sharp  contests,  though  the  dura- 
tion of  them  is  short;  and  the  tussle  of  his  worship  of  this 
woman  with  the  materialistic  turn  of  his  mind  was  closed  by 
the  complete  shutting  up  of  the  latter  under  lock  and  bar; 
BO  that  a  man,  very  little  of  an  idealist,  was  able  to  sustain  her 
in  the  pure  imagination — where  she  did  almost  belong  to  him. 
She  was  his,  in  a  sense,  because  she  might  have  been  his — 
but  for  an  incredible  extreme  of  folly.  The  dark  ring  of  the 
eclipse  cast  bv  some  amazing  foolishness  round  the  shining 
crescent  perpetually  in  secret  claimed  the  whole  sphere  of 
her,  by  what  might  have  been,  while  admitting  her  lost  to 
him  in  fact.  To  Thomas  Redworth's  mind  the  lack  of  perfect 
sanity  in  his  conduct  at  any  period  of  manhood  was  so  entirely 
past  belief  that  he  flew  at  the  circumstances  confirming  the 
charge,  and  had  wrestles  with  the  angel  of  reality,  who  did 
but  set  him  dreaming  backward,  after  flinging  him. 

He  heard  at  Lady  Wathin's  that  Mrs.  Warwick  was  in  town 
for  the  winter.  "Mr.  Dacier  is  also  in  town,"  Lady  Wathin 
said,  with  an  acid  indication  of  the  needless  mention  of  it. 
"We  have  not  seen  him."  She  invited  Redworth  to  meet  a 
few  friends  at  dinner.  "I  think  you  admire  Miss  Asper;  in 
my  idea  a  very  saint  among  young  women; — and  you  know 
what  the  young  women  of  our  days  are.  She  will  be  present. 
She  is,  you  are  aware,  England's  greatest  heiress.  Only  yes- 
terday, hearing  of  that  poor  man,  Mr.  Warwick's  desperate  at- 
tack of  illness — heart! — and  of  his  having  no  relative  or  friend 
to  soothe  his  pillow, — he  is  lying  in  absolute  loneliness, — she 
oifered  to  go  and  nurse  him!  Of  course  it  could  not  be  done. 
It  is  not  her  place.  The  beauty  of  the  character  of  a  dear  in- 
nocent young  girl,  with  every  gratification  at  command,  who 
could  make  the  offer,  strikes  me  as  unparalleled.  She  was  per- 
fectly sincere — she  is  sincerity.  She  asked  at  once,  Where  is 
he?  She  wished  me  to  accompany  her  on  a  first  visit.  I  saw 
a  tear." 

Redworth  had  called  at  Lady  Wathin's  for  information  of 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  269 

the  state  of  Mr.  Warwick,  concerning  which  a  rumor  was 
abroad.  No  stranger  to  the  vagrant  compassionateness  of 
sentimentalists — rich,  idle,  conscience-pricked  or  praise-catch- 
ing— he  was  unmoved  by  the  tale  that  Miss  Asper  had  pro- 
posed to  go  to  Mr.  Warwick's  sick-bed  in  the  uniform  of  a 
Sister  of  Charity: — "Speaking  French!"  Lady  W^athin  ex- 
claimed; and  his  head  rocked  as  he  said,  "An  EngUshman 
would  not  be  likely  to  know  better." 

"She  speaks  exquisite  French — all  European  languages,  Mr. 
Eed worth.  She  does  not  pretend  to  wit.  To  my  thinking, 
depth  of  sentiment  is  a  far  more  feminine  accomplishment. 
It  assuredly  will  be  found  a  greater  treasure." 

The  modest  man  (modest  in  such  matters)  was  led  by  de- 
grees to  fancy  himself  sounded  regarding  Miss  Asper;  a  piece 
of  sculpture  glacially  decorative  of  the  domestic  mansion  in 
person,  to  his  thinking;  and  as  to  the  nature  of  it — not  a 
Diana,  with  all  her  faults! 

If  Diana  had  any  faults,  in  a  world  and  a  position  so  heavily 
against  her!  He  laughed  to  himself,  when  alone,  at  the 
neatly  implied  bitter  reproach  cast  on  the  wife  by  the  for- 
saken young  lady,  who  proposed  to  nurse  the  abandoned  hus- 
band of  the  woman  bereaving  her  of  the  man  she  loved.  Sen- 
timentalists enjoy  these  tricks,  the  conceiving  or  the  doing 
of  them — the  former  mainly,  which  are  cheaper  and  equally 
effective.  Miss  Asper  might  be  deficient  in  wit;  this  was  a 
form  of  practical  wit,  occasionally  exhibited  by  creatures  act- 
ing on  their  instincts.  Warwick  he  pitied,  and  he  put  com- 
pulsion on  himself  to  go  and  see  the  poor  fellow,  the  sub- 
ject of  so  sublime  a  generosity.  Mr.  Warwick  sat  in  an  arm- 
chair, his  legs  out  straight  on  the  heels,  his  jaw  dragging 
hollow  cheeks,  his  hands  loosely  joined;  improving  in  health, 
he  said.  A  demure  woman  of  middle  age  was  in  attendance. 
He  did  not  speak  of  his  wife.  Three  times  he  said  discon- 
nectedly, "I  hear  reports,"  and  his  eyelids  worked.  Redworth 
talked  of  general  affairs,  without  those  consolatory  efforts, 
useless  between  men,  which  are  neither  medicine  nor  good 
honest  water: — he  judged  by  personal  feelings.  In  conse- 
quence he  left  an  invalid  the  sourer  for  his  visit. 

Next  day  he  received  a  briefly-worded  summons  from  Mrs. 
Warwick. 

Crossing  the  Park  on  the  line  to  Diana's  house  he  met 
Miss  Paynham,  who  grieved  to  say  that  Mrs.  Warwick  could 


270  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSS  WAYS. 

not  give  her  a  sitting;  and,  in  a  still  mournfuller  tone,  imag- 
ined he  would  iind  her  at  home,  and  alone  by  this  time.  "I 
left  no  one  but  Mr.  Daeier  there/'  she  observed. 

"Mrs.  Warwick  will  be  disengaged  to-morrow,  no  doubt," 
he  said  consolingly. 

Her  head  performed  the  negative.  "They  talk  politics, 
and  she  becomes  animated,  loses  her  pose.  I  will  persevere, 
though  I  fear  I  have  undertaken  a  task  too  much  for  me." 

"I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you  for  the  attempt."  Redworth 
bowed  to  her  and  set  his  face  to  the  Abbey  towers,  which 
wore  a  different  aspect  in  the  smoked  gray  light  since  his  two 
minutes  of  colloquy.  He  had  previously  noticed  that  meet- 
ings with  Miss  Paynham  produced  a  similar  effect  on  him,  a 
not  so  very  impressionable  man.  And  how  was  it  done?  She 
told  him  nothing  he  did  not  know  or  guess. 

Diana  was  alone.  Her  manner,  after  the  greeting,  seemed 
feverish.  She  had  not  to  excuse  herself  for  abruptness  when 
he  heard  the  nature  of  the  subject.  Her  counselor  and  friend 
was  informed,  in  feminine  style,  that  she  had  requested  him  to 
call,  for  the  purpose  of  consulting  him  with  regard  to  a  matter 
she  had  decided  upon;  and  it  was,  the  sale  of  The  Crossways. 
She  said  that  it  would  have  gone  to  her  heart  once;  she  sup- 
posed she  had  lost  her  affection  for  the  place,  or  had  got  the 
better  of  her  superstitions.  She  spoke  lamely  as  well  as 
bluntly.  The  place  was  hers,  she  said;  her  own  property. 
Her  husband  could  not  interdict  a  sale. 

Redworth  addressed  himself  to  her  smothered  antagonism. 
"Even  if  he  had  rights,  as  they  are  termed  ....  I 
think  you  might  count  on  their  not  being  pressed." 

"I  have  been  told  of  illness."  She  tapped  her  foot  on  the 
floor. 

"His  present  state  of  health  is  unequal  to  his  ordinary 
duties." 

"Emma  Dunstane  is  fully  supplied  with  the  latest  intelli- 
gence, Mr.  Redworth.     You  know  the  source." 

"I  mention  it  simply     .     .     .     ." 

"Yes,  yes.  What  I  have  to  protest  is,  that  in  this  respect 
I  am  free.  The  law  has  me  fast,  but  leaves  me  its  legal  view 
of  my  small  property.  I  have  no  authority  over  me.  I  can  do 
as  I  please  in  this,  without  a  collision,  or  the  dread  of  one. 
It  is  the  married  woman's  perpetual  dread  when  she  ventures 


DIANA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  271 

a  step.  Your  law  originally  presumed  her  a  China-footed 
animal.     And  more,  I  have  a  claim  for  maintenance." 

She  crimsoned  angrily. 

Eedworth  showed  a  look  of  pleasure  hard  to  understand. 
"The  application  would  be  sufficient,  I  fancy/'  he  said. 

"It  should  have  been  offered." 

"Did  you  not  decline  it?" 

"I   declined  to  apply  for  it.     I  thought But,   Mr. 

Eedworth,  another  thing  concerning  us  all;  I  want  very  much 
to  hear  your  ideas  of  the  prospects  of  the  League — ^because 
I  know  you  have  ideas.  The  leaders  are  terrible  men;  they 
fascinate  me.  They  appear  to  move  with  an  army  of  facts. 
They  are  certainly  carrying  the  country.  I  am  obliged  to 
think  them  sincere.  Common  agitators  would  not  hold  to- 
gether as  they  do.  They  gather  strength  each  year.  If  their 
statistics  are  not  illusory — an  army  of  phantoms  instead  of  one 
of  facts — and  they  knock  at  my  head  without  admission,  I 
have  to  confess — they  must  win." 

"Ultimately,  it  is  quite  calculable  that  they  will  win/^  said 
Eedworth;  and  he  was  led  to  discourse  of  rates  and  duties  and 
prohibitive  tariffs  to  a  woman  surprisingly  athirst,  curious 
for  every  scrap  of  intelligence  relating  to  the  power,  organiza- 
tion, and  schemes  of  the  League.  "Common  sense  is  the 
secret  of  every  successful  civil  agitation,"  he  said.  "Eap  it 
unremittingly  on  crowds  of  the  thickest  of  human  heads,  and 
the  response  comes  at  last  to  sweep  all  before  it.  You  may 
reckon  that  the  country  will  beat  the  landlords — for  that  is  our 
question.     Is  it  one  of  your  political  themes  ?" 

"I  am  not  presumptuous  to  such  a  degree — a  poor  scholar," 
Diana  replied.  "Women  striving  to  lift  their  heads  among 
men  deserve  the  sarcasm." 

He  denied  that  any  sarcasm  was  intended,  and  the  lesson 
continued.  When  she  had  shaped  in  her  mind  some  portion 
of  his  knowledge  of  the  subject  she  reverted  casually  to  her 
practical  business.  Would  he  undertake  to  try  to  obtain  a 
purchaser  of  The  Crossways,  at  the  price  he  might  deem  rea- 
sonable? She  left  the  price  entirely  to  his  judgment.  And, 
now  she  had  determined  to  part  with  the  old  place,  the  sooner 
the  better!  She  said  that  smiling;  and  Eedworth  smiled,  out- 
wardly and  inwardly.  Her  talk  of  her  affairs  was  clearer  to 
him  than  her  curiosity  for  the  mysteries  of  the  League.  He 
gained  kind  looks  besides  warm  thanks  by  the  proniise  to  seek 


272  DIAN\A    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

a  purchaser;  especially  by  his  avoidance  of  prying  queries. 
She  wanted  just  this  excellent  automaton  factotum;  and  she 
referred  him  to  Mr.  Braddock  for  the  title-deeds,  et  cetera — 
the  chirping  phrase  of  ladies  happily  washing  their  hands  of 
the  mean  details  of  business. 

"How  of  your  last  work?^^  he  asked  her. 

Serenest  equanimity  rejoined,  "As  I  anticipated,  it  is  not 
popular.  The  critics  are  of  one  mind  with  the  public.  You 
may  have  noticed,  they  rarely  flower  above  that  rocky  sur- 
face. The  Cantatrice  sings  them  a  false  note.  My  next  will 
probably  please  them  less." 

Her  mobile  lips  and  brows  shot  the  faint  upper  wreath  of 
a  smile  hovering.    It  was  designed  to  display  her  philosophy. 

"And  what  is  the  name  of  your  next  ?"  said  he. 

"I  name  it  ^The  Man  of  Two  Minds,'  if  you  can  allow  that 
to  be  in  nature.'' 

"Contra-distinguished  from  the  woman?" 

"Oh!  you  must  first  believe  the  woman  to  have  one." 

"You  are  working  on  it  ?" 

"By  fits.  And  I  forgot,  Mr.  Redworth:  I  have  mislaid  my 
receipts,  and  must  ask  you  for  the  address  of  your  wine- 
merchant; — or,  will  you?  Several  dozen  of  the  same  wines. 
I  can  trust  him  to  be  in  awe  of  you,  and  the  good  repute  of  my 
table  depends  on  his  honesty." 

Redworth  took  the  definite  order  for  a  large  supply  of 
wine. 

She  gave  him  her  hand:  a  lost  hand,  dear  to  hold,  needing 
to  be  guided,  he  feared.  For  him,  it  was  merely  a  hand,  cut 
off  from  the  wrist;  and  he  had  performed  that  executive  part. 
A  wiser  man  would  now  have  been  the  lord  of  it.  .  .  .  So 
he  felt,  with  his  burning  wish  to  protect  and  cherish  the  be- 
loved woman,  while  saying:  "If  we  find  a  speedy  bidder  for 
The  Crossways  you  will  have  to  thank  our  railways." 

"You!"  said  Diana,  confident  in  his  ability  to  do  every- 
thing of  the  practical  kind. 

Her  ingenuousness  tickled  him.  He  missed  her  comic 
touches  upon  men  and  things,  but  the  fever  shown  by  her 
manner  accounted  for  it. 

As  soon  as  he  left  her  she  was  writing  to  the  lover  who 
had  an  hour  previously  been  hearing  her  voice,  the  note  of 
her  theme  being  Party  and  how  to  serve  it,  when  to  sacrifice 
it  to  the  country.    She  wrote  caroling  bars  of  the  Puritani 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  273 

marches;  and  such  will  passion  do,  that  her  choice  of  music 
was  quite  in  harmony  with  her  theme.  The  martially-amor- 
ous melodies  of  Italian  opera  in  those  days  fostered  a  passion 
challenged  to  intrepidity  from  the  heart  of  softness;  gilding 
at  the  same  time,  and  putting  warm  blood  even  into  dull  arith- 
metical figures  which  might  be  important  to  her  lover,  her 
hero  fronting  battle.  She  condensed  Redworth's  information 
skillfully,  heartily  giving  it  and  whatever  she  had  imbibed,  as 
her  own,  down  to  the  remark:  "Common  sense  in  questions  of 
justice  is  a  weapon  that  makes  way  into  human  heads,  and  wins 
the  certain  majority,  if  we  strike  with  it  incessantly.^^  Whether 
anything  she  wrote  was  her  own  mattered  little:  the  savor  of 
Percy's  praise,  which  none  could  share  with  her,  made  it  in- 
stantly all  her  own.  Besides,  she  wrote  to  strengthen  him;  she 
naturally  laid  her  friends  and  the  world  under  contribution; 
and  no  other  sort  of  writing  was  possible.  Percy  had  not  a 
common  interest  in  fiction;  still  less  for  high  comedy.  He 
liked  the  broad  laugh  when  he  deigned  to  open  books  of  that 
sort;  puns  and  strong  flavors  and  harlequin  surprises;  and 
her  work  would  not  admit  of  them,  however  great  her  wil- 
lingness to  force  her  hand  for  his  amusement,  consequently 
her  inventiveness  deadened.  She  had  to  cease  whipping  it. 
"My  poor  old  London  cabhorse  of  a  pen  shall  go  to  grass!" 
she  sighed,  looldng  to  the  sale  of  The  Crossways  for  money — 
looking  no  further. 

Those  marshaled  battalions  of  Debit  and  Credit  were  in 
hostile  order,  the  weaker  simply  devoted  to  fighting  for  de- 
lay, when  a  winged  messenger  bearing  the  form  of  old  Mr. 
Braddock  descended  to  her  with  the  reconciling  news  that  a 
hermit  bachelor,  an  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Eedworth's — ^both 
of  whom  wore  a  gloomy  hue  in  her  mind  immediately — had 
offered  a  sum  for  the  purchase  of  The  Crossways.  Consider- 
ing the  out-of-the-way  district,  Mr.  Braddock  thought  it  an 
excellent  price  to  get.  She  thought  the  reverse,  but  confessed 
that  double  the  sum  would  not  have  altered  her  opinion. 
Double  the  sum  scarcely  counted  for  the  service  she  required 
of  it  for  much  more  than  a  year.  The  money  was  paid  short- 
ly after  into  her  bank,  and  then  she  enjoyed  the  contemptuous 
felicity  of  tossing  meat  to  her  lions,  tigers,  wolves,  and  jack- 
als, who,  but  for  the  fortunate  intervention,  would  have  been 
feeding  on  her.  These  menagerie  beasts  of  prey  were  the 
lady's  tradesmen — Debit's  hungry  brood.     She  had  a  rapid 

18 


274  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

glimpse  of  a  false  position  in  regarding  that  legitimate  band 
so  scornfully:  another  glimpse  likewise  of  a  day  to  come 
when  they  might  not  be  stopped  at  the  door.  She  was  running 
a  race  with  something; — with  what?  It  was  unnamed;  it 
ran  in  a  shroud. 

At  times  she  surprised  her  heart  violently  beating  when 
there  had  not  been  a  thought  to  set  it  in  motion.  She  traced 
it  once  to  the  words,  ^next  year/  incidentally  mentioned. 
^Free'  was  a  word  that  checked  her  throbs,  as  at  a  question  of 
life  or  death.  Her  solitude,  excepting  the  hours  of  sleep,  if 
then,  was  a  time  of  irregular  breathing.  The  something  un- 
named, running  beside  her,  became  a  dreadful  familiar;  the 
race  between  them  past  contemplation  for  ghastliness.  "But 
this  is  your  Law!^'  she  cried  to  the  world,  while  blinding  her 
eyes  against  a  peep  of  the  shrouded  features. 

Singularly,  she  had  but  to  abandon  hope  and  the  shadowy 
figure  vanished,  the  tragic  race  was  ended.  How  to  live  and 
think,  and  not  to  hope:  the  slave  of  passion  had  this  prob- 
lem before  her. 

Other  tasks  were  supportable,  though  one  seemed  hard  at 
moments  and  was  not  passive;  it  attacked  her.  The  men  and 
women  of  her  circle  derisively,  unanimously,  disbelieved  in  an 
innocence  that  forfeited  reputation.  Women  were  compli- 
mentarily  assumed  to  be  not  such  gaping  idiots.  And,  as  the 
weeks  advanced,  a  change  came  over  Percy.  The  gentleman 
had  grown  restless  at  covert  congratulations,  hollow  to  his 
knowledge,  however  much  caressing  vanity,  and  therefore  se- 
cretly a  wound  to  it.  One  day,  after  sitting  silent,  he  bluntly 
proposed  to  break  "this  foolish  trifling";  just  in  his  old  man- 
ner, though  not  so  honorably — not  very  definitely  either.  Her 
hand  was  taken. 

'1  feared  that  dumbness!"  Diana  said,  letting  her  hand 
go,  but  keeping  her  composure.  "My  friend  Percy,  I  am 
not  a  lion-tamer,  and,  if  you  are  of  those  animals,  we  break 
the  chapter.  Plainly,  you  think  that  where  there  appears 
to  be  a  choice  of  fools  the  woman  is  distinctly  designed  for  the 
person.  Drop  my  hand,  or  I  shall  repeat  the  fable  of  the  Goose 
with  the  Golden  Eggs." 

^Tables  are  applicable  only  in  the  schoolroom,"  said  he; 
and  he  ventured  on  "Tony!" 

"I  vowed  an  oath  to  my  dear  Emma — as  good  as  to  the 
heavens!  and  that  of  itself  would  stay  me  from  being  insane 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  /275. 

U^ 
again."  She  released  herself.  "Signer  Percy,  you  teach  me 
to  suspect  you  of  having  an  idle  ^7ish  to  pluck  your  play- 
thing to  pieces: — to  boast  of  it?  Ah!  my  friend,  I  fancied 
I  was  of  more  value  to  you.  You  must  come  less  often;  even 
to  not  at  all,  if  you  are  one  of  those  idols  with  feet  of  clay 
which  leave  the  print  of  their  steps  in  a  room;  or  fall  and 
crush  the  silly  idolizer." 

"But  surely  you  know  .  .  '^  said  he.  "We  can't  have  to 
wait  long."    He  looked  full  of  hopeful  meanings. 

"A  reason!  .  .  ''  She  kept  down  her  breath.  A  long- 
drawn  sigh  followed,  through  parted  lips.  She  had  a  sensa- 
tion of  horror.  "And  I  cannot  propose  to  nurse  him— Emma 
will  not  hear  of  it,"  she  said.  "I  dare  not.  Hypocrite  to  that 
extreme?  Oh,  no!  But  I  must  hear  nothing.  As  it  is,  I 
am  haunted.  Now  let  this  pass.  Tony  me  no  Tonies;  I  am 
atony  to  cuch  whimpering  business  now  we  are  in  the  van  of 
the  struggle.  All  round  us  it  sounds  like  war.  Last  night  I 
had  Mr.  Tonans  dining  here;  he  wished  to  meet  you;  and 
you  must  have  a  private  meeting  with  Mr.  Whitmonby — he 
will  be  useful;  others  as  well.  You  are  wrong  in  affecting 
contempt  of  the  Press.  It  perches  you  on  a  rock;  but  the 
swimmer  in  politics  knows  what  draws  the  tides.  Your  own 
people,  your  set,  your  class,  are  a  drag  to  you,  like  inherited 
superstitions  to  the  wakening  brain.  The  greater  the  glory! 
For  you  see  the  lead  you  take?  You  are  saving  your  class. 
They  should  lead,  and  will,  if  they  prove  worthy  in  the  crisis. 
Their  curious  error  is  to  believe  in  the  instability  of  a  moau- 
mental  position." 

"Perfectly  true!"  cried  Dacier;  and  the  next  minute,  heated 
by  approbation,  was  begging  for  her  hand  earnestly.  She 
refused  it. 

"But  you  say  things  that  catch  me!"  he  pleaded.  "Remem- 
ber, it  was  nearly  mine.  It  soon  will  be  mine.  I  heard  yes- 
terday from  Lady  Wathin     .     .     well,  if  it  pains  you!" 

"Speak  on,"  said  Diana,  resigned  to  her  thirsty  ears. 

"He  is  not  expected  to  last  through  the  autumn." 

"The  calculation  is  hers?" 

"Not  exactly: — judging  from  the  symptoms." 

Diana  flashed  a  fiery  eye  into  Dacier's  and  rose.  She  was 
past  danger  of  melting,  with  her  imagination  darkened  by  the 
funeral  image:  but  she  craved  solitude,  and  had  to  act  the 
callous  to  dismiss  him. 


276  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

"Good.  Enough  for  the  day.  Now  leave  me,  if  you  please. 
When  we  meet  again,  stifle  that  raven's  croak.  I  am  not  a 
^Sister  of  Charity/  but  neither  am  I  a  vulture  hovering  for 
the  horse  in  the  desert  to  die.  A  poor  simile! — ^when  it  is 
my  own  and  not  another's  breath  that  I  want.  Nothing  in 
nature,  only  gruesome  German  stories,  will  fetch  comparisons 
for  the  yoke  of  this  law  of  yours.  It  seems  the  nightmare  dream 
following  an  ogre's  supper." 

She  was  not  acting  the  shiver  of  her  frame. 

To-morrow  was  open  to  him,  and  prospect  of  better  fortune, 
so  he  departed,  after  squeezing  the  hand  she  ceremoniously  ex- 
tended. 

But  her  woman's  intuition  warned  her  that  she  had  not 
maintained  the  sovereign  impression  which  was  her  security. 
And  hope  had  become  a  flame  in  her  bosom  that  would  no 
longer  take  the  common  extinguisher.  The  race  she  ran  was 
with  a  shrouded  figure  no  more,  but  with  the  figure  of  the 
shroud;  she  had  to  summon  paroxysms  of  a  pity  hard  to  feel, 
images  of  sickness,  helplessness,  the  vaults,  the  last  human 
silence — for  the  stilling  of  her  passionate  heart.  And,  when 
this  was  partly  effected,  the  question.  Am  I  going  to  live? 
renewed  her  tragical  struggle.  Who  was  it  under  the  vaults, 
in  the  shroud,  between  the  planks?  and  with  human  sensi- 
bility to  swell  the  horror!  Passion  whispered  of  a  vaster  sor- 
row needed  for  herself;  and  the  hope  conjuring  those  fright- 
ful perplexities  was  needed  to  soothe  her.  She  pitied  the  man, 
but  she  was  an  enamored  woman.  Often  of  late  she  had  been 
sharply  stung,  relaxed  as  well,  by  the  observations  of  Danvers 
assisting  at  her  toilet.  Had  she  beauty  and  charm,  beauty  and 
rich  health  in  the  young  summer  blooming  of  her  days?  and 
all  doomed  to  waste?  No  insurgency  of  words  arose  in  de- 
nunciation of  the  wrong  done  to  her  nature.  An  undefined 
heavy  feeling  of  wrong  there  was,  just  perceptive  enough  to 
let  her  know,  without  grave  shaming,  that  one  or  another 
must  be  slain  for  peace  to  come;  for  it  is  the  case  in  which 
the  world  of  the  Laws  overloading  her  is  pitiless  to  women, 
deaf  past  ear-trumpets,  past  intercession;  detesting  and  re- 
viling them  for  a  feeble  human  cry,  and  for  one  apparent  step 
of  revolt  piling  the  pelted  stones  on  them.  It  will  not  dis- 
criminate shades  of  hue,  it  massacres  all  the  shadowed.  They 
are  honored,  after  a  fashion,  at  a  certain  elevation.  Descencl- 
ing  from  it,  and  purely  to  breathe  common  air  (thus  in  her 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  277 

mind)  they  are  scourged  and  outcast.  And  alas!  the  very 
pleading  for  them  excites  a  sort  of  ridicule  in  their  advocate. 
How  ?  She  was  utterly,  even  desperately,  nay  personally,  earn- 
est, and  her  humor  closed  her  lips;  though  comical  views  of 
the  scourged  and  outcast  coming  from  the  opposite  party — 
the  huge  bully  world — she  would  not  have  tolerated.  Diana 
raged  at  a  prevailing  strength  on  the  part  of  that  huge  bully 
world,  which  seemed  really  to  embrace  the  atmosphere.  Emma 
had  said:  "The  rules  of  Christian  society  are  a  blessed  Gov- 
ernment for  us  women.  We  owe  it  so  much  that  there  is  not 
a  brick  of  the  fabric  we  should  not  prop."  Emma's  talk  of 
obedience  to  the  Laws,  being  Laws,  was  repeated  by  the  rebel, 
with  an  involuntary  unphrased  comparison  of  the  vessel  in 
dock  and  the  vessel  at  sea. 

When  Dacier  next  called  to  see  Mrs.  Warwick  he  heard  that 
she  had  gone  to  Copsley  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  The  lesson 
was  emphasized  by  her  not  writing:  and  was  it  the  tricky  sex, 
or  the  splendid  character  of  the  woman  which  dealt  him  this 
punishment?  Knowing  how  much  Diana  forfeited  for  him, 
he  was  moved  to  some  enthusiasm,  despite  his  inclination  to 
be  hurt. 

She,  on  her  return  to  London,  gained  a  considerable  in- 
crease of  knowledge  as  to  her  position  in  the  eye  of  the 
world;  and,  unlike  the  result  of  her  meditations  derived  from 
the  clamoring  tradesmen,  whom  she  could  excuse,  she  was 
neither  illuminated  nor  cautioned  by  that  dubious  look;  she 
conscientiously  revolted.  Lady  Pennon  hinted  a  word  for 
her  government.  "A  good  deal  of  what  you  so  capitally  call 
'Green  tea  talk'  is  going  on,  my  dear."  Diana  replied,  without 
pretending  to  misunderstand:  "Gossip  is  a  beast  of  prey 
that  does  not  wait  for  the  death  of  the  creature  it  devours. 
They  are  welcome  to  my  shadow,  if  the  liberty  I  claim  casts 
one,  and  it  feeds  them."  To  which  the  old  lady  rejoined:  "Oh! 
I  am  with  you  through  thick  and  thin.  I  presented  you  at 
Court,  and  I  stand  by  you.  Only,  walk  carefully.  Women 
have  to  walk  with  a  train.  You  are  too  famous  not  to  have 
your  troops  of  watchers." 

"But  I  mean  to  prove,"  said  Diana,  "that  a  woman  can 
walk  with  her  train  independent  of  the  common  reserves  and 
artifices." 

"Not  on  highways,  my  dear!" 


278  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

Diana,  praising  the  speaker,  referred  the  whole  truth  in 
that  to  the  material  element  of  her  metaphor. 

She  was  more  astonished  hy  Whitmonhy's  candid  chiding; 
but  with  him  she  could  fence,  and  men  are  easily  diverted. 
Sh3  had  sent  for  him,  to  bring  Mm  and  Percy  Dacier  to- 
gether to  a  conference.  Unaware  of  the  project  he  took  the 
opportunity  of  their  privacy  to  speak  o:f  the  great  station  open 
to  her  in  London  being  imperiled;  and  he  spoke  of  "tongues," 
and  ahem!  A  very  little  would  have  induced  him  to  fill  that 
empty  vocable  with  a  name. 

She  had  to  pardon  the  critic  in  him  for  an  unpleasant  re- 
view of  her  hapless  "Cantatrice;"  and,  as  a  means  of  evasion, 
she  mentioned  the  poor  book  and  her  slaughter  of  the  heroine, 
that  he  had  complained  of. 

"I  killed  her;  I  could  not  let  her  live.  You  were  unjust 
in  accusing  the  authoress  of  heartlessness.'^ 

"If  I  did,  I  retract,"  said  he.  "She  steers  too  evidently 
from  the  center  of  the  vessel.    She  has  the  organ  in  excess." 

"Proof  that  it  is  not  squandered." 

"The  point  concerns  direction." 

"Have  I  made  so  bad  a  choice  of  my  friends?" 

"It  is  the  common  error  of  the  sprightly  to  suppose  that  in 
parrying  a  thrust  they  blind  our  eyes." 

"The  world  sees  always  what  it  desires  to  see,  Mr.  Whit- 
monby." 

"The  world,  my  dear  Mrs.  Warwick,  is  a  blundering  ma- 
chine upon  its  own  affairs,  but  a  cruel  sleuth-hound  to  rouse 
in  pursuit." 

"So  now  you  have  me  chased  by  sight  and  scent.  And  if 
I  take  wing?" 

"Shots!  volleys!  You  are  lawful  game.  The  choice  you 
have  made  of  your  friends  should  oblige  you  to  think  of  them." 

"I  imagine  I  do.    Have  I  offended  any,  or  one?" 

"I  will  not  say  that.  You  know  the  commotion  in  a  French 
kitchen  when  the  guests  of  the  house  declined  a  particular 
dish  furnished  them  by  command.  The  cook  and  his  crew 
were  loyal  to  their  master,  but,  for  the  love  of  their  art,  they 
sent  him  notice.    It  is  ill  serving  a  mad  sovereign." 

Diana  bowed  to  the  compact  little  apologue. 

"I  will  tell  you  another  story,  traditional  in  our  family  from 
my  great-grandmother,  a  Spanish  woman,"  she  said.  "A  cav- 
alier serenaded  his  mistress,  and  rascal  mercenaries  fell  upon 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  279 

him  before  he  could  draw  sword.  He  battered  his  guitar  on 
their  pates  till  the  lattice  opened  with  a  cry,  and  startled  them 
to  flight.  'Thrice  blessed  and  beloved!'  he  called  to  her  above, 
in  reference  to  the  noise,  'it  was  merely  a  diversion  of  the  ac- 
companiment.'   Now  there  was  loyal  service  to  a  sovereign!" 

"You  are  certainly  an  angel!"  exclaimed  Whitmonby.  "I 
swallow  the  story,  and  leave  it  to  digestion  to  discover  tTie 
appositeness.  Whatever  tuneful  instrument  one  of  your 
friends  possesses  shall  solace  your  slumbers  or  batter  the 
pate  of  your  enemy.    But  discourage  the  habitual  serenader." 

"The  musician  you  must  mean  is  due  here  now,  by  appoint- 
ment to  meet  you,"  said  Diana,  and  set  him  momentarily 
agape  with  the  name  of  Mr.  Percy  Dacier. 

That  was  the  origin  of  the  alliance  between  the  young 
statesman  and  a  newspaper  editor.  Whitmonby,  accepting 
proposals  which  suited  him,  quitted  the  house,  after  an  hour 
of  political  talk,  no  longer  inclined  to  hint  at  the  "habitual 
serenader,"  but  very  ready  to  fall  foul  of  those  who  did,  as  he 
proved  when  the  numbers  buzzed  openly.  Times  were  mas- 
culine; the  excitement  on  the  eve  of  so  great  a  crisis,  and  Di- 
ana's comprehension  of  it  and  fine  heading  cry,  put  that  weak 
matter  aside.  Moreover,  he  was  taught  to  suppose  himself  as 
welcome  a  guest  as  Dacier;  and  the  cook  could  stand  criti- 
cism; the  wines — wonderful  to  say  of  a  lady's  table — were 
trusty;  the  talk,  on  the  political  evenings  and  the  social  and 
anecdotal  supper-nights,  ran  always  in  perfect  accord  with 
his  ideal  of  the  conversational  orchestra:  an  improvised  har- 
mony, unmatched  elsewhere.  She  did  not,  he  considered,  so 
perfectly  assort  her  dinner-guests;  that  was  her  one  fault. 
She  had,  therefore,  to  strain  her  adroitness  to  cover  their  de- 
ficiencies and  fuse  them.  But  what  other  woman  could  have 
done  it!  She  led  superbly.  If  an  Irishman  was  present  she 
kept  him  from  overflooding,  managed  to  extract  just  the  flavor 
of  him,  the  smack  of  salt.  She  did  even,  at  Whiimonby's 
table,  on  a  red-letter  Sunday  evening,  in  concert  with  him  and 
the  Dean,  bring  down  that  cataract,  the  Bodleian,  to  the  lev- 
els of  interchanging  dialogue  by  seasonable  touches,  inim- 
itably done,  and  never  done  before.  Sullivan  Smith,  un- 
bridled in  the  middle  of  dinner,  was  docile  to  her.  "Irishmen," 
she  said,  pleading  on  their  behalf  to  Whitmonby,  who  pro- 
nounced the  race  too  raw  for  an  Olympian  feast,  "are  inval- 
uable if  you  hang  them  up  to  smoke  and  cure;"    and  the 


280  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

master  of  social  converse  could  not  deny  that  they  were  re- 
sponsive to  her  magic.  The  supper-nights  were  mainly  de- 
voted to  Percy's  friends.  He  brought  as  many  as  he  pleased, 
and  as  often  as  it  pleased  him;  and  it  was  her  pride  to  pro- 
vide Cleopatra  banquets  for  the  lover  whose  anxieties  were 
soothed  by  them,  and  to  whom  she  sacrificed  her  name  willing- 
ly in  return  for  a  generosity  that  certain  chance  whispers  of 
her  heart  elevated  to  the  pitch  of  measureless. 

So  they  wore  through  the  Session  and  the  autumn,  clouds 
heavier,  the  League  drumming,  the  cry  of  Ireland  "omi- 
nously Banshee,"  as  she  wrote  to  Emma. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

IN  WHICH  THERE  IS  A  TASTE  OF  A  LITTLE  DINNER  AND 
AN  AFTERTASTE. 

"But  Tony  lives!''  Emma  Dunstane  cried,  on  her  solitary 
height,  with  the  full  accent  of  envy  marking  the  verb;  and, 
when  she  wrote  enviously  to  her  friend  of  the  life  among 
bright  intelligences,  and  of  talk  worth  hearing,  it  was  a 
happy  signification  that  health,  frail  though  it  might  be,  had 
grown  importunate  for  some  of  the  play  of  life.  Diana  sent 
her  word  to  name  her  day,  and  she  would  have  her  choicest 
to  meet  her  dearest.  They  were  in  the  early  days  of  Decem- 
ber, not  the  best  of  times  for  improvised  gatherings.  Emma 
wanted,  however,  to  taste  them  as  they  cropped;  she  was 
also,  owing  to  her  long  isolation,  timid  at  a  notion  of  encoun- 
tering the  pick  of  the  London  world,  prepared  by  Tony  to 
behold  "a  wonder  more  than  worthy  of  them,"  as  her  friend 
unadvisedly  wrote.  That  was  why  she  came  unexpectedly, 
and,  for  a  mixture  of  reasons,  went  to  an  hotel.  Fatality 
designed  it  so.  She  was  reproached,  but  she  said:  "You 
have  to  write  or  you  entertain  at  night;  I  should  be  a  clog 
and  fret  you.  My  hotel  is  Maitland's;  excellent;  I  believe  I 
am  to  lie  on  the  pillow  where  a  crowned  head  reposed!  You 
will  perceive  that  I  am  proud  as  well  as  comfortable.  And 
I  would  rather  meet  your  usual  set  of  guests." 

"The  reason  why  I  have  been  entertaining  at  night  is,  that 
Percy  is  harassed  and  requires  enlivening,"  said  Diana.    "He 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  281 

brings  his  friends.  My  house  is  open  to  them,  if  it  amuses 
him.  What  the  world  says  is  past  a  thought.  I  owe  him  too 
much." 

Emma  murmured  that  the  world  would  soon  be  pacified. 

Diana  shook  her  head.  "The  poor  man  is  better;  able  to 
go  about  his  affairs;  and  I  am  honestly  relieved.  It  lays  a 
specter.  As  for  me,  I  do  not  look  ahead.  I  serve  as  a  kind 
of  secretary  to  Percy.  I  labor  at  making  abstracts  by  day, 
and  at  night  preside  at  my  supper-table.  You  would  think 
it  monotonous;  no  incident  varies  the  course  we  run.  I  have 
not  time  to  ask  whether  it  is  happiness.  It  seems  to  bear  a 
resemblance.^^ 

Emma  replied:  "He  may  be  everything  you  tell  me.  He 
should  not  have  chosen  the  last  night  of  the  opera  to  go  to 
your  box  and  sit  beside  you  till  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  The 
presence  at  the  opera  of  a  man  notoriously  indifferent  to  music 
was  enough  in  itself.^' 

Diana  smiled  with  languor.  "You  heard  of  that?  But 
the  opera  was  The  Puritani,  my  favorite.  And  he  saw  me  sit- 
ting in  Lady  Pennon's  box  alone.  We  were  compromised 
neck-deep  already.  I  can  kiss  you,  my  own  Emma,  till  I 
die;  but  what  the  world  sajs  is  what  the  wind  says.  Be- 
sides, he  has  his  hopes.  .  .  If  I  am  blackened  ever  so 
thickly  he  can  make  me  white.  Dear  me!  if  the  world  knew 
that  he  comes  here  almost  nightly!  It  will;  and  does  it  mat- 
ter? I  am  his  in  soul;  the  rest  U  waste-paper — a  half-printed 
sheet.'' 

"Provided  he  is  worthy  of  such  devotion!" 

"He  is  absolute  worthiness.  He  is  the  prince  of  men: — I 
dread  to  say,  mine!  for  fear.  But  Emmy  will  not  judge  him 
to-morrow  by  contrast  with  more  voluble  talkers.  I  can  do 
anything  but  read  poetry  now.  That  kills  me!  See  him 
through  me.  In  nature,  character,  intellect,  he  has  no  rival. 
Whenever  I  despond — and  it  comes  now  and  then — I  rebuke 
myself  with  this  one  admonition:  Simply  to  have  known  him! 
Admit  that  for  a  woman  to  find  one  who  is  worthy  among 
the  opposite  creatures  is  a  happy  termination  of  her  quest, 
and  in  some  sort  dismisses  her  to  the  shades,  an  uncomplaining 
ferry-bird.  If  my  end  were  at  hand  I  should  have  no  cause 
to  lament  it.  We  women  miss  life  only  when  we  have  to  con- 
fess we  have  never  met  the  man  to  reverence." 

Emma  had  to  bear  a  very  great  deal  of  Mr.  Percy.    Diana's 


282  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

comparison  of  herself  to  "the  busy  bee  at  a  window-pane" 
was  more  in  her  old  manner;  and  her  friend  would  have 
barkened  to  the  marvels  of  the  gentleman  less  unrefreshed 
had  it  not  appeared  to  her  that  her  Tony  gave  in  excess  for 
what  was  given  in  return.    She  hinted  her  view. 

"It  is  expected  of  our  sex,"  Diana  said. 

The  work  of  busy  bee  at  a  window-pane  had  at  any  rate 
not  spoilt  her  beauty,  though  she  had  voluntarily,  profitlessly, 
become  this  man's  drudge,  and  her  sprightly  fancy,  her  ready 
humor  and  darting  look  all  round  in  discussion,  were  rather 
deadened. 

But  the  loss  was  not  perceptible  in  the  circle  of  her  guests. 
Present  at  a  dinner  little  indicating  the  last,  where  Whit- 
monby,  in  lively  trim  for  shuffling,  dealing,  cutting,  trumping 
or  drawing  trumps;  Westlake,  polishing  epigrams  under  his 
eyelids;  Henry  Wilmers,  who  timed  an  anecdote  to  strike  as 
the  passing  hour  without  freezing  the  current;  Sullivan 
Smith,  smoked,  cured,  and  ready  to  flavor;  Percy  Dacier, 
pleasant  listener,  measured  speaker;  and  young  Arthur 
Ehodes,  the  neophyte  of  the  hostess's  training,  of  whom  she 
had  said  to  Emma,  "The  dear  boy  very  kindly  serves  to  frank 
an  unlicensed  widow,"  and  whom  she  prompted  and  made  her 
utmost  of,  with  her  natural  tact.  These  she  mixed  and 
leavened.  The  talk  was  on  high  levels  and  low;  an  enchant- 
ment to  Emma  Dunstane:  now  a  story;  a  question  opening 
new  routes;  sharp  sketches  of  known  personage*;  a  paradox 
shot  by  laughter  as  soon  as  uttered;  and  all  so  smoothly;  not 
a  shadow  of  the  dominant  holder-f orth,  or  a  momentary  pros- 
pect of  dead  flats;  the  mellow  ring  of  appositeness  being  the 
concordant  note  of  deliveries  running  linked  as  they  flashed, 
and  a  tolerant  philosophy  of  the  sage  in  the  world  recurrently 
the  keynote. 

Once  only  had  Diana  to  protect  her  nurseling.  He  cited  a 
funny  line  from  a  recent  popular  volume  of  verse,  in  perfect 
a  propos,  looking  at  Sullivan  Smith;  who  replied,  that  the 
poets  had  become  too  many  for  him,  and  he  read  none  now. 
Diana  said:  "There  are  many  Alexanders,  but  Alexander  of 
Macedon  is  not  dwarfed  by  the  number."  She  gave  him  an 
opening  for  a  smarter  reply,  but  he  lost  it  in  a  comment — 
against  Whitmonby's  cardinal  rule:  "The  neatest  turn  of  the 
wrist  that  ever  swung  a  hero  to  crack  a  crown!"  and  lie  bowed 
to  young  Rhodes :    "I'll  read  your  versicler  to-morrow  morn- 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  283 

ing  early."  The  latter  expressed  a  fear  that  the  hour  was  too 
critical  for  poetry. 

"I  have  taken  the  dose  at  a  very  early  hour/'  said  Whit- 
monby,  to  bring  conversation  to  the  flow  again,  "and  it  ef- 
faced the  critical  mind  completely." 

"But  did  not  silence  the  critical  nose,"  observed  Westlake. 

Wilmers  named  the  owner  of  the  longest  nose  in  Europe. 

"Potentially,  indeed  a  critic!"  cried  Diana. 

"Nights  beside  it  must  be  fearful,  and  good  matter  for  a 
divorce,  if  the  poor  dear  lady  could  hale  it  to  the  doors  of 
the  Vatican!"  Sullivan  Smith  exclaimed.  "'But  there's  char- 
acter in  noses." 

"Calculable  by  inches?"  Dacier  asked. 

"More  than  in  any  other  feature,"  said  Lady  Dunstane. 
"The  Eiffords  are  all  prodigiously  gifted  and  amusing:  sus- 
peiidens  omnia  naso.     It  should  be  prayed  for  in  families." 

'^Totum  ut  te  faciant,  FabuUe,  nasum,"  rejoined  "Whit- 
monby.  "Lady  Isabella  was  reading  the  tale  of  the  German 
princess,  who  had  a  sentinel  stationed  some  hundred  yards 
away  to  whisk  off  the  flies,  and  she  owned  to  me  that  her  hand 
instinctively  traveled  upward." 

"Candor  is  the  best  concealment,  when  one  has  to  carry 
a  saddle  of  absurdity,"  said  Diana.  "Touchstone's  'poor  thing, 
but  mine  own,'  is  godlike  in  its  enveloping  fold." 

"The  most  comforting  sermon  ever  delivered  on  property  in 
poverty,"  said  Arthur  Rhodes. 

Westlake  assented.  "His  choice  of  Audrey  strikes  me  as 
an  exhibition  of  the  sure  instinct  for  pasture  of  the  philoso- 
phical jester  in  a  forest." 

"With  nature's  woman,  if  he  can  find  her,  the  urban  seems 
equally  at  home,"  said  Lady  Dunstane. 

"Baron  Pawle  is  an  example,"  added  Whitmonby.  "His 
cook  is  a  pattern  wife  to  him.  I  heard  him  say  at  table  that 
she  was  responsible  for  all  except  the  wines.  ^I  wouldn't 
have  them  on  my  conscience,  with  a  judge!'  my  lady  retorted." 

"When  poor  Madame  de  Jacquieres  was  d3dng,"  said  Wil- 
mers, "her  confessor  sat  by  her  bedside,  prepared  for  his  min- 
istrations. Tour  commencer,  mon  ami,  jamais  je  n'ai  f  ais  rien 
hors  nature.' " 

Lord  Wadaster  had  uttered  something  tolerably  similar. 
"I  am  a  sinner,  and  in  good  society."  Sir  Abraham  Hartis- 
ton,  a  minor  satellite  of  the  Eegent,  diversified  this:    "I  am  a 


284  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

sinner,  and  go  to  good  society/'  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  la 
Roche- Aigle,  the  cause  of  many  deaths,  declared  it  unwomanly 
to  fear  anything  save  "les  revenants."  Yet  the  countess 
could  say  the  pretty  thing:  "Foot  on  a  flower,  then  think 
of  me!" 

"Sentimentality  puts  up  infant  hands  for  absolution,"  said 
Diana. 

"But  tell  me,"  Lady  Dunstane  inquired  generally,  "why 
men  are  so  much  happier  than  women  in  laughing  at  their 
spouses?" 

They  are  humaner,  was  one  dictum;  they  are  more  frivol- 
ous, ironically  another. 

"It  warrants  them  for  blowing  the  bugle-horn  of  masculine 
superiority  night  and  morning  from  the  castle-walls,"  Diana 
said. 

"I  should  imagine  it  is  for  joy  of  heart  that  they  still  have 
cause  to  laugh!"  said  Westlake. 

On  the  other  hand,  are  women  really  pained  by  having  to 
laugh  at  their  lords?  Curious  little  speeches  flying  about  the 
great  world  affirmed  the  contrary.  But  the  fair  speakers  were 
chartered  libertines,  and  their  laugh  admittedly  had  a  biting 
acid.    The  parasite  is  concerned  in  the  majesty  of  the  tree. 

"We  have  entered  Botany  Bay,"  Diana  said  to  Emma;  who 
answered:  "A  metaphor  is  the  Deus  ex  machina  of  an  argu- 
ment;" and  Whitmonby,  to  lighten  a  shadow  of  heaviness,  re- 
lated allusively  an  anecdote  of  the  law  courts.  Sullivan  Smith 
begged  permission  to  "black  cap"  it  with  Judge  Fitz Gerald's 
sentence  upon  a  convicted  criminal,  "Your  plot  was  perfect 
but  for  One  above."  Dacier  cited  an  execrable  impromptu  line 
of  the  chief  of  the  Opposition  in  Parliament.  The  Premier,  it 
was  remarked,  played  him  like  an  angler  his  fish  on  the  hook; 
or  say,  Mr.  Sergeant  Eufus  his  witness  in  the  box. 

"Or  a  French  journalist  an  English  missionary,"  said 
Diana;  and  as  the  instance  was  recent  it  was  relished. 

The  talk  of  Premiers  offered  Whitmonby  occasion  for  a 
flight  to  the  Court  of  Vienna  and  Kaunitz.  Wilmers  told  a 
droll  story  of  Lord  Busby's  missing  the  Embassy  there.  West- 
lake  furnished  a  sample  of  the  tranquil  sententiousness  of 
Busby's  brother  Eobert  during  a  stormy  debate  in  the  House 
of  Commons. 

"I  remember,"  Dacier  was  reminded,  "hearing  him  say, 
when  the  House  resembled  a  Chartist  riot,  'Let  us  stand  aside 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  285 

and  meditate  on  Life.  If  Youth  could  know,  in  the  season 
of  its  reaping  of  the  Pleasures,  that  it  is  but  sowing  Doctor's 
bills!' " 

Latterly  a  malady  had  supervened,  and  Bob  Busby  had  re- 
tired from  the  universal  to  the  special; — his  mysterious  case. 

"Assure  him,  that  is  endemic.  He  may  be  cured  of  his 
desire  for  the  exposition  of  it,"  said  Lady  Dunstane. 

Westlake  chimed  with  her:  "Yes,  the  charm  in  discoursing 
of  one's  case  is  over  when  the  individual  appears  no  longer  at 
odds  with  Providence." 

"But  then  we  lose  our  Tragedy,"  said  Whitmonby. 

"Our  Comedy  too,"  added  Diana.  "We  must  consent  to  be 
Busbied  for  the  sake  of  the  instructive  recreations." 

"A  curious  idea,  though,"  said  Sullivan  Smith,  "that  some 
of  the  grand  instructive  figures  were  in  their  day  colossal 
bores!" 

"So  you  see  the  marvel  of  the  poet's  craft  at  last?"  Diana 
smiled  on  him,  and  he  vowed,  "I'll  read  nothing  else  for  a 
month!"  Young  Rhodes  bade  him  beware  of  a  deluge  in 
proclaiming  it. 

They  rose  from  table  at  ten,  with  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  they  had  not  argued,  had  not  wrangled,  had  never 
stagnated,  and  were  digestingly  refreshed;  as  it  should  be 
among  grown  members  of  the  civilized  world,  who  mean  to 
practice  philosophy,  making  the  hour  of  the  feast  a  balanced 
recreation  and  a  regeneration  of  body  and  mind. 

"Evenings  like  these  are  worth  a  pilgrimage,"  Emma  said, 
embracing  Tony  outside  the  drawing-room  door.  "I  am  so 
glad  I  came;  and,  if  I  am  strong  enough,  invite  me  again  in 
the  spring.  To-morrow  early  I  start  for  Copsley,  to  escape  this 
London  air.    I  shall  hope  to  have  you  there  soon." 

She  was  pleased  by  hearing  Tony  ask  her  whether  she  did 
not  think  that  Arthur  Rhodes  had  borne  himself  well;  for  it 
breathed  of  her  simply  friendly  soul. 

The  gentlemen  followed  Lady  Dunstane  in  a  troop,  Dacier 
yielding  perforce  the  last  adieu  to  young  Rhodes. 

Five  minutes  later  Diana  was  in  her  dressing-room,  where 
she  wrote  at  night,  on  the  rare  occasions  now  when  she  was 
left  free  for  composition.  Beginning  to  dwell  on  "The  Man 
of  Two  Minds,"  she  glanced  at  the  woman  likewise  divided,  if 
not  similarly;  and  she  sat  brooding.  She  did  not  accuse  her 
marriage  of  being  the  first  fatal  step;  her  error  was  the  step 


286  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

into  Society  without  the  wherewithal  to  support  her  position 
there.  Girls  of  her  kind,  airing  their  wings  ahove  the  sphere 
of  their  birth,  are  cryingly  adventuresses.  As  adventuresses 
they  are  treated.  Vain  to  be  shrewish  with  the  world!  Eath- 
er  let  us  turn  and  scold  our  nature  for  irrefiectively  rushing 
to  the  cream  and  honey!  Had  she  subsisted  on  her  small  in- 
come in  a  country  cottage  this  task  of  writing  would  have  been 
holiday.  Or  better,  if,  as  she  preached  to  Mary  Paynham,  she 
had  apprenticed  herself  to  some  productive  craft.  The  sim- 
plicity of  the  life  of  labor  looked  beautiful.  What  will  not 
look  beautiful  contrasted  with  the  fly  in  the  web?  She  had 
chosen  to  be  one  of  the  flies  of  life. 

Instead  of  running  to  composition,  her  mind  was  eloquent 
with  a  sermon  to  Arthur  Ehodes,  in  Redworth's  vein;  more 
sympathetically,  of  course.  "For  I  am  not  one  of  the  lectur- 
ing Mammonites!"  she  could  say. 

She  was  far  from  that.  Penitentially,  in  the  thick  of  her 
disdain  of  the  arrogant  money-getters,  she  pulled  out  a  drawer 
where  her  bank-book  lay,  and  observed  it  contemplatively; 
jotting  down  a  reflection  before  the  dread  book  of  facts  was 
opened:  "Gaze  on  the  moral  path  you  should  have  taken:  you 
are  asked  for  courage  to  commit  a  sanctioned  suicide,  by  walk- 
ing back  to  it  stripped — a  skeleton  self.'^  She  sighed  forth: 
"But  I  have  no  courage;  I  never  had!" 

The  book  revealed  its  tale  in  a  small  penciled  computation 
of  the  bank-clerk's,  on  the  peccant  side.  Credit  presented 
many  pages  blanks.  She  seemed  to  have  withdrawn  from  the 
struggle  with  such  a  partner. 

It  signified  an  immediate  appeal  to  the  usurers,  unless  the 
publisher  could  be  persuaded,  with  three  parts  of  the  book  in 
his  hands,  to  come  to  the  rescue.  Work!  roared  old  Debit,  the 
sinner  turned  slave-driver. 

Diana  smoothed  her  wrists,  compressing  her  lips  not  to 
laugh  at  the  simulation  of  an  attitude  of  combat.  She  took 
up  her  pen. 

And,  strange  to  think,  she  could  have  flowed  away  at  once 
on  the  stuff  that  Danvers  delighted  to  read! — wicked  princes, 
rogue  noblemen,  titled  wantons,  daisy  and  lily  innocents, 
traitorous  marriages,  murders,  a  gallows  dangling  a  corpse 
dotted  by  a  moon,  and  a  woman  bowed  beneath.  She  could 
have  written,  with  the  certainty  that  in  the  upper  and  the 
middle  as  well  as  in  the  lower  classes  of  the  country  there 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  287 

would  be  a  multitude  to  read  that  stuff,  so  cordially,  despite 
the  gaps  between  them,  are  they  one  in  their  literary  tastes. 
And  why  should  they  not  read  it?  Her  present  mood  was  a 
craving  for  excitement — for  incident,  wild  action,  the  primi- 
tive machinery  of  our  species — any  amount  of  theatrical  he- 
roics, pathos,  and  clown-gabble.  A  panorama  of  scenes  came 
sweeping  round  her. 

She  was,  however,  harnessed  to  a  different  kind  of  vehicle, 
and  had  to  drag  it.  The  sound  of  the  house-door  shutting, 
imagined  perhaps,  was  a  fugitive  distraction.  Now  to  animate 
"The  Man  of  Two  Minds." 

He  is  courting,  but  he  is  burdened  with  the  task  of  tasks. 
He  has  an  ideal  of  womanhood  and  of  the  union  of  couples,  a 
delicacy  extreme  as  his  attachment:  and  he  must  induce  the 
lady  to  school  herself  to  his  ideal,  not  allowing  her  to  suspect 
him  less  devoted  to  her  person;  while  she,  an  exacting  idol,  will 
drink  any  quantity  of  idealization  as  long  as  he  starts  it  from 
a  full  acceptance  of  her  acknowledged  qualities.  Diana  could 
once  have  tripped  the  scene  along  airily.  She  stared  at  the 
opening  sentence,  a  heavy  bit  of  moralized  manufacture,  fit 
to  yoke  beside  that  on  her  view  of  her  bank-book. 

"It  has  come  to  this — I  have  no  head!"  she  cried. 

And  is  our  public  likely  to  muster  the  slightest  taste  for 
comic  analysis  that  does  not  tumble  to  farce?  The  doubt  re- 
duced her  whole  MS.  to  a  leaden  weight,  composed  for  sink- 
ing. Percy's  addiction  to  burlesque  was  a  further  hindrance, 
for  she  did  not  perceive  how  her  comedy  could  be  strained  to 
gratify  it. 

There  was  a  knock,  and  Danvers  entered. 

"You  have  apparently  a  liking  for  late  hours,''  observed  her 
mistress.    "I  told  you  to  go  to  bed." 

"It  is  Mr.  Dacier,"  said  Danvers. 

"He  wishes  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.    He  apologized  for  disturbing  you." 

"He  must  have  some  good  reason." 

What  could  it  be!  Diana's  glass  approved  her  appearance. 
She  pressed  the  black  swell  of  hair  above  her  temples,  rather 
amazed,  curious,  inclined  to  a  beating  of  the  heart. 


288  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

A  CHAPTER  CONTIAINING  GREAT  POLITICAL  NEWS  AND 
THEREWITH  AN  INTRUSION  OF  THE  LOVE-GOD. 

Dacier  was  pacing  about  the  drawing-room,  as  in  a  place 
too  narrow  for  him. 

Diana  stood  at  the  door.  "Have  you  forgotten  to  tell  me 
anything  I  ought  to  know?" 

He  came  up  to  her  and  shut  the  door  softly  behind  her,  hold- 
ing her  hand.  "You  are  near  it.  I  returned  .  .  .  But 
tell  me  first:  You  were  slightly  under  a  shadow  this  evening — 
dejected." 

"Did  I  show  it?" 

She  was  growing  a  little  suspicious,  but  this  cunning  touch 
of  lover-like  interest  dispersed  the  shade. 

"To  me  you  did." 

"It  was  unpardonable  to  let  it  be  seen." 

"No  one  else  could  have  observed  it." 

Her  woman's  heart  was  thrilled;  for  she  had  concealed  the 
dejection  from  Emma. 

"It  was  nothing,"  she  said;  "a  knot  in  the  book  I  am  writ- 
ing.   We  poor  authors  are  worried  now  and  then.    But  you?" 

His  face  rippled  by  degrees  brightly,  to  excite  a  reflection 
in  hers. 

"Shall  I  tune  you  with  good  news?  I  think  it  will  excuse  me 
for  coming  back." 

"Very  good  news?" 

"Brave  news,  as  far  as  it  goes." 

"Then  it  concerns  you!" 

"Me,  you,  the  country." 

"Oh!  do  I  guess?"  cried  Diana.    "But  speak,  pray;  I  burn." 

"What  am  I  to  have  for  telling  it?" 

"Put  no  price.  You  know  my  heart.  I  guess,  or  fancy. 
It  relates  to  your  chief?" 

Dacier  smiled  in  a  way  to  show  the  lock  without  the  key; 
and  she  was  insensibly  drawn  nearer  to  him,  speculating  on 
the  smile. 

"Try  again,"  said  he,  keenly  appreciating  the  blindness  to 


DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  289 

his  motive  of  her  studious  dark  eyes,  and  her  open-lipped 
breathing. 

"Percy!   I  must  be  right.'^ 

"Well,  you  are.    He  has  decided!" 

"Oh!  that  is  the  bravest  possible.    When  did  you  hear?" 

"He  informed  me  of  his  final  decision  this  afternoon." 

"And  you  were  charged  with  the  secret  all  the  evening,  and 
betrayed  not  a  sign!  I  compliment  the  diplomatic  statesman. 
But  when  will  it  be  public  ?" 

"He  calls  Parliament  together  the  first  week  of  next  month." 

"The  proposal  is ?    No  more  compromises!" 

"Total!" 

Diana  clapped  hands;  and  her  aspect  of  enthusiasm  was  in- 
toxicating. "He  is  a  wise  man  and  a  gallant  Minister!  And 
while  you  were  reading  me  through  I  was  blind  to  you,"  she 
added  meltingly. 

"I  have  not  made  too  much  of  it?"  said  he. 

"Indeed  you  have  not." 

She  was  radiant  with  her  dark  lightnings,  yet  visibly  sub- 
ject to  him  under  the  spell  of  the  news  he  had  artfully  length- 
ened out  to  excite  and  overbalance  her;  and  her  enthusiasm 
was  all  pointed  to  his  share  in  the  altered  situation,  as  he 
well  knew  and  was  flattered  in  knowing. 

"So  Tony  is  no  longer  dejected?  I  thought  I  could  freshen 
you  and  get  my  excuse." 

"Oh!  a  high  wind  will  make  a  dead  leaf  fly  like  a  bird.  T 
soar.  Now  I  do  feel  proud.  I  have  longed  for  it — to  have  you 
leading  the  country:  not  tugged  at  like  a  wagon  with  a  treble 
team  uphill.  We  two  are  a  month  in  advance  of  all  England. 
You  stand  by  him? — only  to  hear  it,  for  I  am  sure  of  it!" 

"We  stand  or  fall  together." 

Her  glowing  look  doted  on  the  faithful  lieutenant. 

"And,  if  the  henchman  is  my  hero,  I  am  but  a  waiting-wom- 
an.   But  I  must  admire  his  leader." 

"Tony!" 

"Ah!  no" — she  joined  her  hands,  wondering  whither  her 
armed  majesty  had  fled — "no  softness!  no  payments!  Flat- 
ter me  by  letting  me  think  you  came  to  a  head — not  a  silly 
woman's  heart,  with  one  name  on  it,  as  it  has  not  to  betray. 
I  have  been  frank;  you  need  no  proofs  .  ."  The  suppli- 
cating hands  left  her  figure  an  easy  prey  to  the  storm,  and 
were  crushed  in  a  knot  on  her  bosom.    She  could  only  shrink. 

19 


(^ 


DIANA   OP  THE   CROSSWAYS. 


A^Ah!    Percy    .     .    you  undo  my  praise  of  you — ^my  pride 
/in  receiving  you." 

They  were  speechless  perforce. 

"You  see,  Tony,  my  dearest,  I  am  flesh  and  blood  after  all." 

"You  drive  me  to  be  ice  and  door-bolts!" 

Her  eyes  broke  over  him  reproachfully. 

"It  is  not  so  much  to  grant,"  he  murmured. 

"It  changes  everything  between  us." 

"Not  me.    It  binds  me  the  faster." 

"It  makes  me  a  loathsome  hypocrite." 

"But,  Tony!    is  it  so  much?" 
.   "ISTot  if  you  value  it  low." 

^*But  how  long  do  you  keep  me  in  this  rag-puppet's  state 
of  suspension?" 

"Patience!" 

"Dangling  and  swinging  day  and  night!" 

"The  rag-puppet  shall  be  animated  and  repaid  if  I  have  life. 
I  wish  to  respect  my  hero.  Have  a  little  mercy.  Our  day 
will  come:  perhaps  as  wonderfully  as  this  wonderful  news. 
My  friend,  drop  your  hands.  Have  you  forgotten  who  I  am? 
I  want  to  think,  Percy." 
But  you  are  mine." 

"You  are  abasing  your  own." 

"No,  by  Heaven!" 

"Worse,  dear  friend;  you  are  lowering  yourself  to  the 
woman  who  loves  you." 

You  must  imagine  me  superhuman." 

"I  worship  you — or  did." 

"Be  reasonable,  Tony.  What  harm!  Surely  a  trifle  of 
recompense?  Just  to  let  me  feel  I  live!  You  own  you  love 
me.    Then  I  am  your  lover." 

"My  dear  friend  Percy,  when  I  have  consented  to  be  your 
paramour  this  kind  of  treatment  of  me  will  not  want  apolo- 
gies." 

The  plain  speaking  from  the  wound  he  dealt  her  was  ef- 
fective with  a  gentleman  who  would  never  have  enjoyed  his 
privileges  had  he  been  of  a  nature  unsusceptible  to  her  dis- 
tinct wish  and  meaning. 

He  sighed.  "You  know  how  my  family  bother  me.  The 
woman  I  want,  the  only  woman  I  could  marry,  I  can't  have." 

"You  have  her  in  soul." 


DIAN-A   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 


,C^ 


"Body  and  soul  it  must  be!    I  believe  you  were  made  witb 
out  fire." 

"Perhaps.  The  element  is  omitted  with  some  of  us — ^hap- 
pily, some  think.  Now  we  can  converse.  There  seems  to  be 
a  measurement  of  distances  required  before  men  and  women 
have  a  chance  with  their  brains — or  before  a  man  will  under- 
stand that  he  can  be  advised  and  seconded.  When  will  the 
Cabinet  be  consulted?" 

"Oh,  a  few  days.    Promise  me     .    .    ." 

"Any  honorable  promise!" 

"You  will  not  keep  me  waiting  longer  than  the  end  of  the 
Session?" 

"Probably  there  will  be  an  appeal  to  the  country." 

"In  any  case,  promise  me:  have  some  compassion." 

"Ah^  the  compassion!  You  do  not  choose  your  words, 
Percy,  or  forget  who  is  the  speaker." 

"It  is  Tony  who  forgets  the  time  she  has  kept  her  lover 
dangling.    Promise,  and  I  will  wait." 

"You  hurt  my  hand,  sir." 

"I  could  crack  the  knuckles.    Promise!" 

"Come  to  me  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow  you  are  in  your  armor — triple  brass!  All 
creation  cries  out  for  now.  We  are  mounted  on  barbs,  and 
you  talk  of  ambling." 

"Arthur  Rhodes  might  have  spoken  that." 

"Rhodes!"  he  shook  off  the  name  in  disgust.  "Pet  him  as 
muGh  as  you  like;  don't  .  .  ."  he  was  unable  to  phrase  his 
objection. 

She  cooled  him  further  with  eulogies  of  the  chevaleresque 
manner  of  speaking  which  young  Mr.  Rhodes  could  assume; 
till  for  very  wrath  of  blood — not  jealousy:  he  had  none  of 
any  man  with  her;  and  not  passion;  the  little  he  had  was  a 
fitful  gust — he  punished  her  coldness  by  taking  what  hastily 
could  be  gathered. 

Her  shape  was  a  pained  submission;  and  she  thought: 
Where  is  the  woman  who  ever  knows  a  man!  as  women  do 
think  when  one  of  their  artifices  of  evasion  with  a  lover,  or 
the  trick  of  imposingness,  has  apparently  been  subduing  him. 
But  the  pain  was  less  than  previously,  for  she  was  now  mistress 
V)f  herself,  fearing  no  abysses. 

Dacier  released  her  quickly,  saying:  "If  I  come  to-morrow 
shall  I  have  the  promise?" 


292  DIAN(A   OF   THE   CROBSWAYS. 

She  answered;   "Be  sure  I  shall  not  lie." 

"Why  not  let  me  have  it  before  I  go?" 

"My  friend,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you  have  utterly  dis- 
tracted me." 

"Forgive  me  if  I  did  hurt  your  hand." 

"The  hand?    You  might  strike  it  off." 

"I  can't  be  other  than  a  mortal  lover,  Tony.  There's  the 
fact." 

"N"o;  the  fault  is  mine  when  I  am  degraded.  I  trust  you; 
there's  the  error." 

The  trial  for  Dacier  was  the  sight  of  her  quick-lifting  bosom 
under  the  mask  of  cold  language:  an  attraction  and  repulsion 
in  union;  a  delirium  to  any  lover  impelled  to  trample  on  weak 
defenses.  But  the  evident  pain  he  inflicted  moved  his  pity, 
which  helped  to  restore  his  conception  of  the  beauty  of  her 
character.  She  stood  so  nobly  meek.  And  she  w-as  never 
prudish,  only  self-respecting.  Although  the  great  news  he 
imparted  had  roused  an  ardent,  thirst  for  holiday  and  a  dash 
out  of  harness,  and  he  could  hardly  check  it,  he  yielded  her 
the  lead. 

"Trust  me  you  may,"  he  said.  "But  you  know  we  are  one. 
The  world  has  given  you  to  me,  me  to  you.  Why  should  we 
be  asunder?    There's  no  reason  in  it." 

She  replied:  "But  still  I  wish  to  burn  a  little  incense  in 
honor  of  myself,  or  else  I  cannot  live.  It  is  the  truth.  You 
make  death  my  truer  friend,  and  at  this  moment  I  would 
willingly  go  out.  You  would  respect  me  more  dead  than  alive. 
I  could  better  pardon  you,  too." 

He  pleaded  for  the  red  mouth's  pardon,  remotely  irritated 
by  the  suspicion  that  she  swayed  him  overmuch:  and  he  had 
deserved  the  small  benevolences  and  donations  of  love,  crumbs 
and  heavenly  dues! 

"Not  a  word  of  pardon,"  said  Diana.  "I  shall  never  count 
an  iota  against  you  ^in  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of 
Time.'  This  news  is  great,  and  I  have  sunk  beneath  it.  Come 
to-morrow.  Then  we  will  speak  upon  whatever  you  can  prove 
rational.    The  hour  is  getting  late." 

Dacier  took  a  draught  of  her  dark  beauty  with  the  crim- 
son he  had  kindled  over  the  cheeks.  Her  lips  were  firmly 
closed,  her  eyes  grave;  dry,  but  seeming  to  waver  tearfully  in 
their  heavy  fullness.  He  could  not  doubt  her  love  of  him; 
and,  although  chafing  at  the  idea  that  she  swayed  him  ab- 


DIANA    OF    THE    CR03SWAYS.  293 

surdly — ^beyond  the  credible  in  his  world  of  wag-tongues — he 
resumed  his  natural  soberness,  as  a  garment,  not  very  uneasily 
fitting:  whence  it  ensued — for  so  are  we  influenced  by  the 
garb  we  put  on  us — ^that  his  manly  sentiment  of  revolt  in  be- 
ing condemned  to  play  second  was  repressed  by  the  refresh- 
ment breathed  on  him  from  her  lofty  character,  the  pure  jewel 
proffered  to  his  inward  ownership. 

"Adieu  for  the  night,"  he  said,  and  she  smiled.  He  pressed 
for  a  pressure  of  her  hand.  She  brightened  her  smile  instead, 
and  said  only,  "Good  night,  Percy." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

WHEREIN  WE  BEHOLD  A  GIDDY  TURN  AT  THE  SPECTRAL 
CROSSWAYS. 

Danvers  accompanied  Mr.  Dacier  to  the  house-door.  Climb- 
ing the  stairs,  she  found  her  mistress  in  the  drawing-room  still. 

"You  must  be  cold,  ma'am,"  she  said,  glancing  at  the  fire- 
grate. 

"Is  it  a  frost?"  said  Diana. 

"It's  midnight  and  midwinter,  ma'am." 

"Has  it  struck  midnight?" 

The  mantel-piece  clock  said  five  minutes  past. 

*^ou  had  better  go  to  bed,  Danvers,  or  you  will  lose  your 
bloom.  Stop;  you  are  a  faithful  soul.  Great  things  are  hap- 
pening and  I'm  agitated.  Mr.  Dacier  has  told  me  news.  He 
came  back  purposely." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Danvers.    "He  had  a  great  deal  to  tell." 

"Well,  he  had."  Diana  colored  at  the  first  tentative  imper- 
tinence she  had  heard  from  her  maid.  "What  is  the  secret 
of  you,  Danvers?    What  attaches  you  to  me?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  ma'am.    I'm  romantic." 

"And  you  think  me  a  romantic  object?" 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  say,  ma'am.  I'd  rather  serve  you  than 
any  other  lady;  and  I  wish  you  was  happy." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  am  unhappy?" 

"I'm  sure — but  if  I  may  speak,  ma'am:  so  handsome  and 
clever  a  lady!  and  young!    I  can't  bear  to  see  it." 

"Tush,  you  silly  woman!    You  read  your  melting  tales,  and 


294  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSS  WAYS. 

imagine.  I  must  go  and  write  for  mone}^:  it  is  my  profession. 
And  I  haven't  an  idea  in  my  head.  This  news  disturbs  me. 
Ruin  if  I  don't  write;  so  I  must.    I  can't!" 

Diana  beheld  the  ruin.  She  clasped  ihe  great  news  for  suc- 
cor. Great  indeed;  and  known  but  to  ner  of  all  the  outer 
world.    She  was  ahead  of  all — ahead  of  Mr,  Tonans! 

The  visionary  figure  of  Mr.  Tonans  petrified  oy  the  great 
news,  drinking  it,  and  confessing  her  ahead  of  him  in  the 
race  for  secrets,  arose  toweringly.  She  had  not  ever  seen  the 
editor  in  his  den  at  midnight.  With  the  rumble  of  his  machin- 
ery about  him,  and  fresh  matter  arriving  and  flying  into  the 
printing-press,  it  must  be  like  being  in  the  very  furnace-hissing 
of  Events:  an  Olympian  Council  held  in  Vulcan's  smithy. 
Consider  the  bringing  to  the  Jove  there  news  of  such  magni- 
tude as  to  stupefy  him!  He,  too,  who  bad  admonished  her 
rather  sneeringly  for  staleness  in  her  information.  But  this 
news,  great  though  it  was,  and  throbbing  like  a  heart  plucked 
out  of  a  breathing  body,  throbbed  but  for  a  brief  term,  a  day 
or  two;  after  which,  great  though  it  was,  immense,  it  re- 
lapsed into  a  common  organ,  a  possession  of  the  multitude, 
merely  historically  curious. 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  the  streets  at  night?"  Diana  said 
to  her  maid,  as  they  were  going  upstairs. 

"Not  when  we're  driving,  ma'am,"  was  the  answer. 

"The  Man  of  Two  Minds"  faced  his  creatrix  in  the  dressing- 
room,  still  delivering  that  most  ponderous  of  sentences — a 
smothering  pillow! 

I  have  mistaken  my  vocation,  thought  Diana:  I  am  certain- 
ly the  flattest  proser  who  ever  penned  a  line. 

She  sent  Danvers  into  the  bedroom  on  a  trifling  errand, 
unable  to  bear  the  woman's  proximity  and  oddly  unwilling  to 
dismiss  her.  She  pressed  her  hands  on  her  eyelids.  Would 
Percy  have  humiliated  her  so  if  he  had  respected  her?  Tie 
took  advantage  of  the  sudden  loss  of  her  habitual  queenly  in- 
itiative at  the  wonderful  news  to  debase  and  stain  their  inti- 
macy. The  lover's  behavior  was  judged  by  her  sensations:  she 
felt  humiliated,  plucked  violently  from  the  throne  where  she 
had  long  been  sitting  securely,  very  proudly.  That  was  at 
an  end.  If  she  was  to  be  better  than  the  loathsomest  of 
hypocrites  she  must  deny  him  his  admission  to  the  house.  And 
then  what  was  her  life! 

Something  that  was  pressing  her  low,  she  knew  not  how. 


DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS.  295 

and  left  it  unquestioned,  incited  her  to  exaggerate  the  indig- 
nity her  pride  had  suffered.  She  was  a  dethroned  woman. 
Deeper  within,  an  unmasked  actress,  she  said.  Oh,  she  for- 
gave him!  But  clearly  he  took  her  for  the  same  as  other  wom- 
en consenting  to  receive  a  privileged  visitor.  And,  sounding 
herself  to  the  soul,  was  she  so  magnificently  better?  Her  face 
flamed.  She  hugged  her  arms  at  her  breast  to  quiet  the  beat- 
ing, and  dropped  them  when  she  surprised  herself  embracing 
the  memory.  He  had  brought  political  news,  and  treated  her 
as — name  the  thing!  Not  designedly,  it  might  be:  her  position 
invited  it.  "The  world  had  given  her  to  him."  The  world  is 
always  a  prophet  of  the  mire;  but  the  world  is  no  longer  an 
utterly  mistaken  world.    She  shook  before  it. 

She  asked  herself  why  Percy  or  the  world  should  think  high- 
ly of  an  adventuress,  who  was  a  denounced  wife,  a  wretched 
author,  and  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  She  was  an  ad- 
venturess. When  she  held  The  Crossways  she  had  at  least  a 
bit  of  solid  footing — ^now  gone.  An  adventuress  without  an 
idea  in  her  head:  witness  her  dullard,  "The  Man  of  Two 
Minds,"  at  his  work  of  sermonizing  his  mistress. 

The  tremendous  pressure  upon  our  consciousness  of  the  ma- 
terial cause — when  we  find  ourselves  cast  among  the  breakers 
of  moral  difficulties  and  endeavor  to  elude  that  mud-visaged 
monster,  chiefly  by  feigning  unconsciousness — was  an  experi- 
ence of  Diana's  in  the  crisis  to  which  she  was  wrought.  Her 
wits  were  too  acute,  her  nature  too  direct,  to  permit  of  a 
lengthened  confusion.  She  laid  the  scourge  on  her  flesh  smart- 
ly. I  gave  him  these  privileges  because  I  am  weak  as  the  weak- 
est, base  as  my  enemies  proclaim  me.  I  covered  my  woman's 
vile  weakness  with  an  air  of  intellectual  serenity  that  he, 
choosing  his  moment,  tore  away,  exposing  me  to  myself,  as 
well  as  to  him,  the  most  ordinary  of  reptiles.  I  kept  up  a  costly 
household  for  the  sole  purpose  of  seeing  him  and  having  him 
near  me.  Hence  this  bitter  need  of  money!  Either  it  must 
be  money  or  disgrace.  Money  would  assist  her  quietly  to 
amend  and  complete  her  work.  Yes,  and  this  want  of  money, 
in  a  review  of  the  last  two  years,  was  the  material  cause  of  her 
recklessness.  It  was — her  revived  and  uprising  pudency  de- 
clared— the  principal,  the  only  cause.    Mere  want  of  money. 

And  she  had  a  secret  worth  thousands!  The  secret  of  a 
day,  no  more:  anybody's  secret  after  some  four-and-twenty 
hours. 


t%  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

She  smiled  at  the  fancied  elongation  and  stare  of  the  fea- 
tures of  Mr.  Tonans  in  his  editorial  midnight  den. 

What  if  he  knew  it  and  could  cap  it  with  something  novel 
and  stranger?    Hardly.    But  it  was  an  inciting  suggestion. 

She  began  to  tremble  as  a  lightning-flash  made  visible  her 
fortunes  recovered,  disgrace  averted,  hours  of  peace  for  com- 
position stretching  before  her:   a  summer  afternoon's  vista. 

It  seemed  a  duel  between  herself  and  Mr.  Tonans,  and  she 
sure  of  her  trumph — Diana  victrix! 

"Dan vers!"  she  called. 

"Is  it  to  undress,  ma'am?"  said  the  maid,  entering  to  her. 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  the  streets,  you  tell  me.  I  have  to 
go  down  to  the  City,  I  think.  It  is  urgent.  Yes,  I  must  go. 
If  I  were  to  impart  the  news  to  you  your  head  would  be  a 
tolling  bell  for  a  month." 

"You  will  take  a  cab,  ma'am." 

"We  must  walk  out  to  find  one.  I  must  go,  though  I  should 
have  to  go  on  foot.  Quick  with  bonnet  and  shawl;  muf- 
fle up  warmly.  We  have  never  been  out  so  late:  but  does  it 
matter?  You're  a  brave  soul,  I'm  sure,  and  you  shall  have  your 
fee." 

"I  don't  care  for  money,  ma'am." 

"When  we  get  home  you  shall  kiss  me." 

Danvers  clothed  her  mistress  in  furs  and  rich  wrappings. 
Not  paid  for!  was  Diana's  desperate  thought;  and  a  wrong 
one:  but  she  had  to  seem  the  precipitated  bankrupt  and  suc- 
ceeded. She  was  near  being  it.  The  boiling  of  her  secret  car- 
ried her  through  the  streets  rapidly  and  unobservantly  except 
of  such  small  things  as  the  glow  of  the  lights  on  the  pavements 
and  the  hushed  cognizance  of  the  houses,  in  silence  to  a  thor- 
oughfare where  a  willing  cabman  was  met.  The  destination 
named,  he  nodded  alertly:  he  had  driven  gentlemen  there  at 
night  from  the  House  of  Commons,  he  said. 

"Our  Parliament  is  now  sitting,  and  you  drive  ladies,"  Diana 
replied. 

"I  hope  I  know  one,  never  mind  the  hour,"  said  he  of  the 
capes. 

He  was  bidden  to  drive  rapidly. 

"Complexion  a  tulip:  you  do  not  often  see  a  pale  cabman," 
she  remarked  to  Danvers,  who  began  laughing,  as  she  always 
expected  to  do  on  an  excursion  with  her  mistress. 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  297 

"Do  you  remember,  ma'am,  the  cabman  taking  us  to  the 
coach,  when  you  thought  of  going  to  the  Continent?" 

"And  I  went  to  The  Crossways  ?    I  have  forgotten  him." 

"He  declared  you  was  so  beautiful  a  lady  he  would  drive 
you  to  the  end  of  England  for  nothing." 

"It  must  have  been  when  I  was  paying  him.  Put  it  out  of 
your  mind,  Danvers,  that  there  are  individual  cabmen.  They 
are  the  painted  flowers  of  our  metropolitan  thoroughfares,  and 
we  gather  them  in  rows." 

"They  have  their  feelings,  ma'am." 

"Brandied  feelings  are  not  pathetic  to  me." 

"I  like  to  think  kindly  of  them,"  Danvers  remarked,  in  re- 
proof of  her  inhumanity;  adding,  "They  may  overturn  us!" 
at  which  Diana  laughed. 

Her  eyes  were  drawn  to  a  brawl  of  women  and  men  in  the 
street.  "Ah!  that  miserable  sight!"  she  cried.  "It  is  the  ever- 
lasting nightmare  of  London." 

Danvers  humped,  femininely  injured  by  the  notice  of  it. 
She  wondered  her  mistress  should  deign  to. 

Eolling  on  between  the  blind  and  darkened  houses,  Diana 
transferred  her  sensations  to  them,  and  in  a  fit  of  the  nerves 
imagined  them  beholding  a  funeral  convoy  without  followers. 

They  came  in  view  of  the  domed  cathedral,  hearing,  in  a 
pause  of  the  wheels,  the  bell  of  the  hour.  "Faster!  faster!  my 
dear  man,"  Diana  murmured,  and  they  entered  a  small  still 
square  of  many  lighted  windows. 

"This  must  be  where  the  morrow  is  manufactured,"  she 
said.  "Tell  the  man  to  wait.  Or  rather  it's  the  mirror  of  yes- 
terday: we  have  to  look  backward  to  see  forward  in  life." 

She  talked  her  cool  philosophy  to  mask  her  excitement 
from  herself. 

Her  card,  marked  "Imperative — two  minutes,"  was  taken  up 
to  Mr.  Tonans.  They  ascended  to  the  editorial  ante-room. 
Doors  opened  and  shut,  hasty  feet  traversed  the  corridors,  a 
dull  hum  in  dumbness  told  of  mighty  business  at  work.  Diana 
received  the  summons  to  the  mighty  head  of  the  establishment. 
.  Danvers  was  left  to  speculate.  She  heard  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Tonans,  "Not  more  than  two!"  This  was  not  a  place  for  com- 
pliments. Men  passed  her,  hither  and  yonder,  cursorily  no- 
ticing the  presence  of  a  woman.  She  lost,  very  strangely  to 
her,  the  sense  of  her  sex,  and  became  an  object — a  disregard- 
ed object.    Things  of  more  importance  were  about.    Her  f emi- 


298  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

nine  self-esteem  was  troubled;  all  idea  of  attractiveness  ex- 
pired. Here  was  manifestly  a  spot  where  women  had  dropped 
from  the  secondary  to  the  cancelled  stage  of  their  extraordi- 
nary career  in  a  world  either  blowing  them  aloft  like  soap- 
bubbles  or  quietly  shelving  them  as  supernumeraries.  A  gen- 
tleman— sweet  vision! — shot  by  to  the  editor^s  door,  without 
even  looking  cursorily.  He  knocked.  Mr.  Tonans  appeared 
and  took  him  by  the  arm,  dictating  at  a  great  rate;  perceived 
Danvers,  frowned  at  the  female,  and  requested  him  to  wait 
in  the  room,  which  the  gentleman  did,  not  once  casting  eye 
upon  a  woman.  At  last  her  mistress  returned  to  her,  es- 
corted so  far  by  Mr.  Tonans,  and  he  refreshingly  bent  his 
back  to  bow  over  her  hand:  so  we  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  we  are  not  such  poor  creatures  after  all!  Suffer- 
ing in  person,  Danvers  was  revived  by  the  little  show  of  hom- 
age to  her  sex. 

They  descended  the  stairs. 

"You  are  not  an  editor  of  a  paper,  but  you  may  boast  that 
you  have  been  near  the  nest  of  one,"  Diana  said,  when  they 
resumed  their  seats  in  the  cab.  She  breathed  deeply  from  time 
to  time,  as  if  under  a  weight,  or  relieved  of  it,  but  she  seemed 
animated,  and  she  dropped  now  and  again  a  funny  observation 
of  the  kind  that  tickled  Danvers  and  caused  the  maid  to  boast 
of  her  everywhere  as  better  than  a  play. 

At  home,  Danvers  busied  her  hands  to  supply  her  mistress 
a  cup  of  refreshing  tea  and  a  plate  of  biscuits.  Diana  had 
stunned  herself  with  the  strange  weight  of  the  expedition,  and 
had  not  a  thought.  In  spite  of  tea  at  that  hour,  she  slept 
soundly  through  the  remainder  of  the  night,  dreamlessly,  till 
late  into  the  morning. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII. 

EXHIBITS  THE  SPRINGING  OF  A  MINE  IN  A  NEWSPAPER 

ARTICLE. 

The  powers  of  harmony  would  seem  to  be  tried  to  their 
shrewdest  pitch  when  Politics  and  Love  are  planted  together 
in  a  human  breast.  This  apparently  opposite  couple  can  nev- 
ertheless chant  a  very  sweet  accord,  as  was  shown  by  Dacier 
on  his  homeward  walk  from  Diana's  house.    Let  Love  lead, 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  299 

the  god  will  make  music  of  any  chamber-comrade.  He  was 
able  to  think  of  affairs  of  State  while  feeling  the  satisfied 
thirst  of  the  lover,  whose  pride,  irritated  by  confidential  wild 
eulogies  of  the  beautiful  woman,  had  recently  clamored  for 
proofs  of  his  commandership.  The  impression  she  stamped 
on  him  at  Copsley  remained,  but  it  could  not  occupy  the  fore- 
ground for  ever.  He  did  not  object  to  play  second  to  her 
sprightly  wits  in  converse  if  he  had  some  warm  testimony  to 
his  mastery  over  her  blood.  For  the  world  had  given  her  to 
him,  enthusiastic  friends  had  congratulated  him:  she  had 
exalted  him  for  true  knightliness;  and  he  considered  the 
proofs  well  earned,  though  he  did  not  value  them  low.  They 
were  little  by  comparison.  They  lighted,  instead  of  staining, 
her  unparalleled  high  character. 

She  loved  him.  Full  surely  did  she  love  him,  or  such  a 
woman  would  never  have  consented  to  brave  the  world;  once 
in  their  project  of  flight,  and  next,  even  more  endearingly 
when  contemplated,  in  the  sacrifice  of  her  good  name;  not 
omitting  that  fervent  memory  of  her  pained  submission,  but 
a  palpitating  submission,  to  his  caress.  She  was  in  his  arms 
again  at  the  thought  of  it.  He  had  melted  her,  and  won  the 
confession  of  her  senses  by  a  surprise,  and  he  owned  that  never 
had  woman  been  so  vigilantly  self-guarded  or  so  watchful  to 
keep  her  lover  amused  and  aloof.  Such  a  woman  deserved 
long  service.  But  then  the  long  service  deserved  its  time  of 
harvest.  Her  surging  look  of  reproach  in  submission  pointed 
to  the  golden  time;  and,  as  he  was  a  man  of  honor,  pledged 
to  her  for  life,  he  had  no  remorse,  and  no  scruple  in  deter- 
mining to  exact  her  dated  promise,  on  this  occasion  deliber- 
ately. She  was  the  woman  to  be  his  wiie:  she  was  his  mind's 
mate:  they  had  hung  apart  in  deference  to  mere  scruples  too 
long.  During  the  fierce  battle  of  the  Session  she  would  be 
his  help,  his  fountain  of  counsel;  and  she  would  be  the  rosy 
gauze-veiled  more  than  cold  helper  and  adviser,  the  being 
which  would  spur  her  womanly  intelligence  to  acknowledge, 
on  this  occasion  deliberately,  the  wisdom  of  the  step.  They 
had  been  so  close  to  it!  She  might  call  it  madness  then:  now 
it  was  wisdom.  Each  had  complete  experience  of  the  other, 
and  each  vowed  the  step  must  be  taken. 

As  to  the  secret  communicated,  he  exulted  in  the  pardon- 
able cunning  of  the  impulse  turning  him  back  to  her  house 
after  the  guests  had  gone,  and  the  dexterous  play  of  bis  bait 


300  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

on  the  line  tempting  her  to  guess  and  quit  her  queenly  guard. 
Though  it  had  not  been  distinctly  schemed,  the  review  of  it 
in  that  light  added  to  the  enjoyment.  It  had  been  dimly 
and  richly  conjectured  as  a  hoped  result.  Small  favors  from 
her  were  really  worth,  thrice  worth,  the  utmost  from  other 
women.  They  tasted  the  sweeter  for  the  winning  of  them 
artfully — an  honorable  thing  in  love.  Nature,  rewarding 
the  lover's  ingenuity  and  enterprise,  inspires  him  with  old 
Greek  notions  of  right  and  wrong:  and  love  is  indeed  a  fluid 
mercurial  realm,  continually  shifting  the  principles  of  recti- 
tude and  larceny.  As  long  as  he  means  nobly,  what  is  there 
to  condemn  him?  Not  she  in  her  heart.  She  was  the  pre- 
siding divinity. 

And  she,  his  Tony,  that  splendid  Diana,  was  the  woman 
the  world  abused!     Whom  will  it  not  abuse? 

The  slough  she  would  have  to  plunge  in  before  he  could 
make  her  his  own  with  the  world's  consent  was  already  up 
to  her  throat.  She  must,  and  without  further  hesitation,  be 
steeped,  that  he  might  drag  her  out,  washed  of  the  imputed 
defilement,  and  radiant,  as  she  was  in  character.  Eeflection 
now  said  this;  not  impulse. 

Her  words  rang  through  him.  At  every  meeting  she  said 
things  to  confound  his  estimate  of  the  wits  of  women,  or  be 
remembered  for  some  spirited  ring  they  had: — A  high  wind 
will  make  a  dead  leaf  fly  like  a  bird.  He  murmured  it  and 
flew  with  her.  She  quickened  a  vein  of  imagination  that  gave 
him  entrance  to  a  strangely  brilliant  sphere,  above  his  own, 
where,  she  sustaining,  he  too  could  soar;  and  he  did,  scarce 
conscious  of  walking  home,  undressing,  falling  asleep. 

The  act  of  waking  was  an  instantaneous  recovery  of  his  emo- 
tional rapture  of  the  overnight;  nor  was  it  a  bar  to  graver 
considerations.  His  chief  had  gone  down  to  a  house  in  the 
country;  his  personal  business  was  to  see  and  sound  the  fol- 
lowers of  their  party — after  another  sight  of  his  Tony.  She 
would  be  sure  to  counsel  sagaciously;  she  alwa3^s  did.  She 
had  a  marvelous  intuition  of  the  natures  of  the  men  he 
worked  with,  solely  from  his  chance  descriptions  of  them:  it 
was  as  though  he  started  the  bird  and  she  transfixed  it.  And 
she  should  not  have  matter  to  ruflie  her  smooth  brows:  that 
he  swore  to.  She  should  sway  him  as  she  pleased,  be  respected 
after  her  prescribed  manner.  The  promise  must  be  exacted; 
nothing  besides  tlie  promise.    You  see,  Tony,  you  cannot  be 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  301 

less  than  Tony  to  me  now,  he  addressed  the  gentle  phantom 
of  her.  Let  me  have  your  word,  and  I  am  your  servant  till 
the  Session  ends.  Tony  blushes  her  swarthy  crimson:  Diana 
fluttering  rebukes  her — but  Diana  is  the  appeasable  goddess: 
Tony  is  the  woman,  and  she  loves  him.  The  glorious  god- 
dess need  not  cut  them  adrift;  they  can  show  her  a  book  of 
honest  pages. 

Dacier  could  truthfully  say  he  had  worshipped,  done  knight- 
ly service  to  the  beloved  woman,  homage  to  the  aureole  en- 
circling her.  Those  friends  of  his,  covertly  congratulating 
him  on  her  preference,  doubtless  thought  him  more  priv- 
ileged than  he  was;  but  they  did  not  know  Diana;  and  they 
were  welcome,  if  they  would  only  believe,  to  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  at  the  feet  of  this  most  sovereign  woman.  He 
despised  the  particular  satyr-world,  which,  whatever  the  na- 
ture or  station  of  the  woman,  crowns  the  desecrator,  and  be- 
stows the  title  of  Fool  on  the  worshipper.  He  could  have 
answered  veraciously  that  she  had  kept  him  from  folly. 

Nevertheless  the  term  must  come  to  service.  Id.  the  as- 
surance of  the  approaching  term  he  stood  braced  against  a 
blowing  world;  happy  as  men  are  when  their  muscles  arc 
strung  for  a  prize  they  pluck  with  the  energy  and  aim  of 
their  whole  force. 

Letters  and  morning  papers  were  laid  for  him  to  peruse  in 
his  dressing-room.  He  read  his  letters  before  the  bath.  Not 
much  public  news  was  expected  at  the  present  season.  While 
dressing,  he  turned  over  the  sheets  of  Whitmonby's  journal. 
Dull  comments  on  stale  tidings.  Foreign  news.  Home  news, 
with  the  leaders  on  them,  identically  dull.  Behold  the  effect 
of  Journalism:  a  witty  man,  sparkling  overnight,  gets  into 
his  pulpit  and  proses — because  he  must  say  something  and 
he  really  knows  nothing.  Journalists  have  an  excessive  over- 
estimate of  their  influence.  They  cannot — as  Diana  said, 
comparing  them  with  men  on  the  Parliamentary  platform — 
cannot  feel  they  are  aboard  the  big  vessel;  they  can  only 
strive  to  raise  a  breeze,  or  find  one  to  sw^ll;  and  they  cannot 
measure  the  stoutness  or  the  greatness  of  the  good  ship  Eng- 
land. Dacier's  personal  ambition  was  inferior  to  his  desire 
to  extend  and  strengthen  his  England.  Parliament  was  the 
field.  Government  the  office.  How  many  conversations  had 
passed  between  him  and  Diana  on  that  patriotic  dream!  She 
had  often  filled  his  drooping  sails;  he  owned  it  proudly — and 


302  DIANiA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

while  the  world,  both  the  hoofed  and  the  rectilinear  portions, 
were  biting  at  her  character!  Had  he  fretted  her  self-respect? 
He  blamed  himself,  but  a  devoted  service  mnst  have  its  term. 

The  paper  of  Mr.  Tonans  was  reserved  for  perusal  at  break- 
fast. He  reserved  it  because  Tonans  was  an  opponent,  tricksy 
and  surprising  now  and  then,  amusing  too;  unlikely  to  afford 
him  serious  reflections.  The  recent  endeavors  of  his  journal 
to  whip  the  Government-team  to  a  right-about-face  were  an- 
noying, preposterous.  Dacier  had  admitted  to  Diana  that 
Tonans  merited  the  thanks  of  the  country  during  the  dis- 
creditable Eailway  mania,  when  his  articles  had  a  fine  ex- 
hortative and  prophetic  twang,  and  had  done  marked  good. 
Otherwise,  as  regarded  the  Ministry,  the  veering  gusts  of 
Tonans  were  objectionable:  he  "raised  the  breeze"  wantonly 
as  well  as  disagreeably.  Any  one  can  whip  up  the  populace  if 
he  has  the  instruments;  and  Tonans  frequently  intruded  on 
the  Ministry's  prerogative  to  govern.  The  journalist  was 
bidding  against  the  statesman.  But  such  is  the  condition  of 
a  rapidly  Eadicalizing  country!     We  must  take  it  as  it  is. 

With  a  complacent.  What  now,  Dacier  fixed  his  indifferent 
eyes  on  the  first  column  of  the  leaders. 

He  read,  and  his  eyes  grew  horny.  He  jerked  back  at  each 
sentence,  electrified,  staring.  The  article  was  shorter  than 
usual.  Total  Eepeal  was  named;  the  precise  date  when  the 
Minister  intended  calling  Parliament  together  to  propose  it. 
The  "Total  Eepeal"  might  be  guesswork — an  editor's-  bold 
stroke;  but  the  details,  the  date,  were  significant  of  positive 
information.  The  Minister's  definite  and  immediate  instruc- 
tions were  exactly  stated. 

Where  could  the  fellow  have  got  hold  of  that?  Dacier  asked 
the  blank  ceiling. 

He  frowned  at  vacant  corners  of  the  room  in  an  effort  to 
conjure  some  speculation  indicative  of  the  source. 

Had  his  chief  confided  the  secret  to  another  and  a  traitor? 
Had  they  been  overheard  in  his  library  when  the  project  de- 
termined on  was  put  in  plain  speech? 

The  answer  was  No,  impossible,  to  each  question. 

He  glanced  at  Diana.  She?  But  it  was  past  midnight 
when  he  left  her.  And  she  would  never  have  betrayed  him, 
never,  never.  To  imagine  it  a  moment  was  an  injury  to  her. 
^  Where  else  could  he  look?  It  had  been  specially  men- 
tioned in  the  communication  as  a  secret  by  his  chief,  who 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  303 

trusted  him  and  no  others.  Up  to  the  consultation  with  the 
Cabinet  it  was  a  thing  to  be  guarded  like  hfe  itself.  Not  to 
a  soul  except  Diana  would  Dacier  have  breathed  syllable  of 
any  secret — and  one  of  this  weight! 

He  ran  down  the  article  again.  There  were  the  facts; 
undeniable  facts;  and  they  detonated  with  audible  roaring 
and  rounding  echoes  of  them  over  England.  How  did  they 
come  there?  As  well  inquire  how  man  came  on  the  face  of 
the  earth. 

He  had  to  wipe  his  forehead  perpetually.  Think  as  he 
would  in  exaltation  of  Diana  to  shelter  himself,  he  was  the 
accused.  He  might  not  be  the  guilty,  but  he  had  opened  his 
mouth:  and,  though  it  was  to  her  only — and  she,  as  Dunstane 
had  sworn,  true  as  steel — he  could  not  escape  condemnation. 
He  had  virtually  betrayed  his  master.  Diana  would  never 
betray  her  lover,  but  the  thing  was  in  the  air  as  soon  as  uttered: 
and  off  to  the  printing  press!  Dacier's  grotesque  fancy  under 
annoyance  pictured  a  stream  of  small  printer's  devils  in  flight 
from  his  babbling  lips. 

He  consumed  bits  of  breakfast,  Avith  a  sour  confession  that 
a  newspaper  article  had  hit  him  at  last,  and  stunningly. 

Hat  and  coat  were  called  for.  The  state  of  aimlessness  in 
hot  perplexity  demands  a  show  of  action.  Whither  to  go 
first  was  as  obscure  as  what  to  do.  Diana  said  of  the  Eng- 
lishman's hat  and  coat,  that  she  supposed  they  were  to  make 
him  a  walking  presentment  of  the  house  he  had  shut  up  be- 
hind him.  A  shot  of  the  eye  at  the  glass  confirmed  the  like- 
ness, but  with  a  ruefully  wry-faced  repudiation  of  it  inter- 
nally. Not  so  shut  up;  the  reverse  of  that — a  common  bab- 
bler. 

However,  there  was  no  doubt  of  Diana.  First  he  would 
call  on  her.  The  pleasantest  dose  in  perturbations  of  the 
kind  is  instinctively  taken  first.  She  would  console,  perhaps 
direct  him  to  guess  how  the  secret  had  leaked.  But  so  sud- 
denly, immediately!     It  was  inexpUcable. 

Sudden  and  immediate  consequences  were  experienced. 
On  the  steps  of  his  house  his  way  was  blocked  by  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Quintin  Manx,  who  jumped  out  of  a  cab,  bellowing  in- 
terjections and  interrogations  in  a  breath.  Was  there  any- 
thing in  that  article?  He  had  read  it  at  breakfast,  and  it  had 
choked  him.  Dacier  was  due  at  a  house  and  could  not  wait; 
he  said,  rather  sharply,  he  was  not  responsible  for  newspaper 


304  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

articles.  Quintin  Manx,  a  senior  gentleman  and  junior  land- 
owner, vowed  that  no  Minister  intending  to  sell  the  country 
should  treat  him  as  a  sheep.  The  shepherd  might  go;  he 
would  not  carry  his  flock  with  him.  But  was  there  a  twinkle 
of  probability  in  the  story?  .  .  .  that  article!  Dacier 
was  unable  to  inform  him;  he  was  very  hurried,  had  to  keep 
an  appointment. 

^^If  I  let  you  go  will  you  come  and  lunch  with  me  at  two  ?" 
said  Quintin. 

To  get  rid  of  him,  Dacier  nodded  and  agreed. 

"Two  o'clock,  mind!"  was  bawled  at  his  heels  as  he  walked 
off  with  his  long  stride,  unceremoniously  leaving  the  pursy 
gentleman  of  sixty  to  settle  with  his  cabman  far  to  the  rear. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

IN  WHICH  IT  IS  DARKLY  SEEN  HOW  THE  CRIMINAL'S 
JUDGE  MAY  BE  LOVE'S  CRIMINAL. 

When  we  are  losing  balance  on  a  precipice  we  do  not  think 
much  of  the  thing  we  have  clutched  for  support.  Our  bal- 
ance is  restored  and  we  have  not  fallen — that  is  the  com- 
fortable reflection;  we  stand  as  others  do,  and  we  will  for  the 
future  be  warned  to  avoid  the  dizzy  stations  which  cry  for  re- 
sources beyond  a  common  equilibrium,  and  where  a  slip  precipi- 
tates us  to  ruin. 

When,  further,  it  is  a  woman  planted  in  a  burning  blush, 
having  to  idealize  her  feminine  weakness,  that  she  may  not 
rebuke  herself  for  groveling,  the  mean  material  acts  by  which 
she  sustains  a  tottering  position  are  speedily  swallowed  in  the 
one  pervading  flame.  She  sees  but  an  ashen  curl  of  the  path 
she  has  traversed  to  safety,  if  anything. 

Knowing  her  lover  was  to  come  in  the  morning,  Diana's 
thoughts  dwelt  wholly  upon  the  way  to  tell  him,  as  tenderly 
as  possible  without  danger  to  herself,  that  her  time  for  enter- 
taining was  over  until  she  had  finished  her  book;  indefinitely, 
therefore.  The  apprehension  of  his  complaining  pricked  the 
memory  that  she  had  something  to  forgive.  He  had  sunk 
her  in  her  own  esteem  by  compelling  her  to  see  her  woman's 
softness.  But  how  high  above  all  other  men  her  experience 
of  him  could  place  him  notwithstanding!    He  had  bowed  to 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  305 

the  figure  of  herself,  dearer  than  herself,  that  she  set  before 
him:  and  it  was  a  true  figure  to  the  world;  a  too  fictitious  to 
any  but  the  most  knightly  of  lovers.  She  forgave;  and  a 
shudder  seized  her.  Snake!  she  rebuked  the  delicious  run 
of  fire  through  her  veins;  for  she  was  not  like  the  idol  woman 
of  imperishable  type,  who  is  never  for  a  twinkle  the  prey  of 
the  blood :  statues  created  by  man's  common  desire  to  impress 
upon  the  sex  his  possessing  pattern  of  them  as  domestic 
decorations. 

When  she  entered  the  room  to  Dacier  and  they  touched 
hands  she  rejoiced  in  her  coolness,  without  any  other  feeling 
or  perception  active.    Not  to  be  unkind,  not  too  kind:   this 
was  her  task.     She  waited  for  the  passage  of  common-places. 
"You  slept  well,  Percy?" 
"Yes;  and  you?" 
"I  don't  think  I  even  dreamed." 

They  sat.  She  noticed  the  cloud  on  him  and  waited  for 
his  allusion  to  it,  anxious  concerning  him  simply. 

Dacier  flung  the  hair  off  his  temples.  Words  of  Titanic 
formation  were  hurling  in  his  head  at  journals  and  journal- 
ists.    He  muttered  his  disgust  of  them. 

"Is  there  anything  to  annoy  you  in  the  papers  to-day?"  she 
asked,  and  thought  how  handsome  his  face  was  in  anger. 

The  paper  of  Mr.  Tonans  was  named  by  him.  "You  have 
not  seen  it?" 

"I  have  not  opened  it  yet.'' 

He  sprang  up.  "The  truth  is,  those  fellows  can  now  afford 
to  buy  right  and  left,  corrupt  every  soul  alive!  There  must 
have  been  a  spy  at  the  keyhole.  I'm  pretty  certain — I  could 
swear  it  was  not  breathed  to  any  ear  but  mine;  and  there  it  is 
this  morning  in  black  and  white." 

"What  is?"  cried  Diana,  turning  to  him  on  her  chair. 
"The  thing  I  told  you  last  night." 

Her  lips  worked,  as  if  to  spell  the  thing.  "Printed,  do  you 
say?"     She  rose. 

"Printed.  In  a  leading  article,  loud  as  a  trumpet;  a  hue- 
and-cry  running  from  end  to  end  of  the  country.  And  my 
chief  has  already  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  secret  he 
confided  to  me  yesterday  roared  in  all  the  thoroughfares  this 
morning.  They've  got  the  facts:  his  decision  to  propose  it, 
and  the  date — the  whole  of  it!  But  who  could  have  betrayed 
it?" 


306  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

For  the  first  time  since  her  midnight  expedition  she  felt  a 
sensation  of  the  full  weight  of  the  deed.     She  heard  thunder. 

She  tried  to  disperse  the  growing  burden  by  an  inward 
summons  to  contempt  of  the  journalistic  profession,  but  noth- 
ing would  come.  She  tried  to  minimize  it,  and  her  brain  suc- 
cumbed. Her  views  of  the  deed  last  night  and  now  throttled 
reason  in  two  contending  clutches.  The  enormity  swelled  its 
dimensions,  taking  shape,  and  pointing  magnetically  at  her. 
She  stood  absolutely,  amazedly,  bare  before  it. 

"Is  it  of  such  very  great  importance?"  she  said,  like  one 
supplicating  him  to  lessen  it. 

"A  secret  of  State?  If  you  ask  whether  it  is  of  great  im- 
portance to  me,  relatively  it  is  of  course.  Nothing  greater. 
Personally,  my  conscience  is  clear.  I  never  mentioned  it — 
couldn't  have  mentioned  it — to  any  one  but  you.  I'm  not 
the  man  to  blab  secrets.  He  spoke  to  me  because  he  knew  he 
could  trust  me.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  brought  to  a  dead 
stop.  I  can't  make  a  guess.  I'm  certain — from  what  he  said 
that  he  trusted  me  only  with  it — perfectly  certain.  I  know 
him  well.  He  was  in  his  library,  speaking  in  his  usual  conver- 
sational tone,  deliberately,  not  overloud.  He  stated  that  it 
was  a  secret  between  us." 

"Will  it  affect  him?" 

"This  article?  Why,  naturally  it  will.  You  ask  strange 
questions.  A  Minister  coming  to  a  determination  like  that! 
It  affects  him  vitally.  The  members  of  the  Cabinet  are  not 
so  devoted.  ...  It  affects  us  all — the  whole  party  may 
split  it  to  pieces!  There's  no  reckoning  the  upset  right  and 
left.  If  it  were  false  it  could  be  refuted;  we  could  despise  it  as 
a  trick  of  journalism.  It's  true.  There's  the  mischief. 
Tonans  did  not  happen  to  call  here  last  night? — ^absurd!  I 
left  later  than  half  past  twelve." 

"No,  but  let  me  hear,"  Diana  said  hurriedly,  for  the  sake  of 
uttering  the  veracious  negative  and  to  slur  it  over.  "Let  me 
hear  .  .  ."     She  could  not  muster  an  idea. 

Her  delicious  thrilling  voice  was  a  comfort  to  him.  He 
lifted  his  breast  high  and  thumped  it,  trying  to  smile.  "After 
all,  it's  pleasant  being  with  you,  Tony.  Give  me  your  hand — 
you  may:  I'm  bothered — confounded  by  this  morning  surprise. 
It  was  like  walking  against  the  muzzle  of  a  loaded  cannon 
suddenly  unmasked.  One  can't  fathom  the  mischief  it  will 
do.     And  I  shall  be  suspected,  and  can't  quite  protest  myself 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  307 

the  spotless  innocent.  Not  even  to  one's  heart's  mistress!  to 
the  wife  of  the  bosom!  I  suppose  I'm  no  Roman.  You  won't 
give  me  your  hand?  Tony,  you  might,  seeing  I  am  rather  .  .  ." 

A  rush  of  scalding  tears  flooded  her  eyes. 

"Don't  touch  me,"  she  said,  and  forced  her  sight  to  look 
straight  at  him  through  the  fierj^  shower.  "I  have  done  posi- 
tive mischief." 

"You,  my  dear  Tony?"  He  doted  on  her  face.  "I  don't 
blame  you,  I  blame  myself.  These  things  should  never  be 
breathed.  Once  in  the  air,  the  devil  has  hold  of  them.  Don't 
take  it  so  much  to  heart.  The  thing's  bad  enough  to  bear  as 
it  is.  Tears!  Let  me  have  the  hand.  I  came,  on  my  honor, 
with  the  most  honest  intention  to  submit  to  your  orders:  but 
if  I  see  you  weeping  in  sympathy!" 

"Oh!  for  Heaven's  sake,"  she  caught  her  hands  away  from 
him,  "don't  be  generous.  Wliip  me  with  scorpions.  And 
don't  touch  me,"  cried  Diana.  "Do  you  understand?  You 
did  not  name  it  as  a  secret.  I  did  not  imagine  it  to  be  a  secret 
of  immense,  immediate  importance." 

"But — what?"  shouted  Dacier,  stiffening. 

He  wanted  her  positive  meaning,  as  she  perceived,  having 
hoped  that  it  was  generally  taken  and  current,  and  the  shock 
to  him  over. 

"I  had  .  .  I  had  not  a  suspicion  of  doing  harm,  Percy." 

"But  what  harm  have  you  done?     No  riddles!" 

His  features  gave  sign  of  the  break  in  their  common 
ground,  the  widening  gulf. 

"I  went  ...  it  was  a  curious  giddiness:  I  can't  account 
for  it.     I  thought  .  .  ." 

"Went  ?     You  went  where  ?" 

"Last  night.  I  would  speak  intelligibly:  my  mind  has 
gone.     Ah!  you  look.     It  is  not  so  bad  as  my  feelings." 

"But  where  did  you  go  last  night?     What! — to  Tonans?" 

She  drooped  her  head:  she  saw  the  track  of  her  route  cleav- 
ing the  darkness  in  a  demoniacal  zig-zag  and  herself  in  demon's 
grip. 

"Yes,"  she  confronted  him.     "I  went  to  Mr.  Tonans." 

"Why?" 

"I  went  to  him ^" 

'You  went  alone?" 

"I  took  my  maid." 

"Well?" 


SOS  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

"It  was  late  when  you  left  me  ..." 

"Speak  plainly!" 

"I  am  trying:  I  will  tell  you  all." 

"At  once,  if  you  please." 

"I  went  to  him — why?  There  is  no  accounting  lor  it.  He 
sneered  constantly  at  any  stale  information." 

"You  gave  him  constant  information?" 

"No;  in  our  ordinary  talk.  He  railed  at  me  for  being 
'out  of  it.'  I  must  be  childish;  I  went  to  show  him — oh!  my 
vanity!     I  think  I  must  have  been  possessed." 

She  watched  the  hardening  of  her  lover's  eyes.  They  pene- 
trated, and  through  them  she  read  herself  insufferably. 

But  it  was  with  hesitation  still  that  he  said,  "Then  you  be- 
trayed me?" 

"Percy!    I  had  not  a  suspicion  of  mischief." 

"You  went  straight  to  this  man?" 

"Not  thinking  .  .  ." 

"You  sold  me  to  a  journalist!" 

"I  thought  it  was  a  secret  of  a  day.  I  don't  think  you — 
no,  you  did  not  tell  me  to  keep  it  secret.  A  word  from  you 
would  have  been  enough.     I  was  in  extremity." 

Dacier  threw  his  hands  up  and  broke  away.  He  had  an 
impulse  to  dash  from  the  room,  to  get  a  breath  of  different  air. 
He  stood  at  the  window,  observing  tradesmen's  carts,  house- 
maids, blank  doors,  dogs,  a  beggar  fifer.  Her  last  words  re- 
curred to  him.  He  turned:  "You  were  in  extremity,  you  said. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  that?    What  extremity?" 

Her  large  dark  eyes  flashed  powerlessly;  her  shape  appeared 
to  have  narrowed;  her  tongue,  too,  was  a  feeble  penitent. 

"You  ask  a  creature  to  recall  her  acts  of  insanity." 

"There  must  be  some  signification  in  your  words,  I  suppose." 

"I  will  tell  you  as  clearly  as  I  can.  You  have  the  right  to 
be  my  judge.  I  was  in  extremity — that  is,  I  saw  no  means 
.  .  .  I  could  not  write:  it  was  ruin  coming." 

"Ah!  you  took  payment  for  playing  spy?" 

"I  fancied  I  could  retrieve  .  .  .  Now  I  see  the  folly,  the 
baseness.    I  was  blind." 

"Then  you  sold  me  to  a  journalist  for  money?" 

The  intolerable  scourge  fetched  a  stifled  scream  from  her 
and  drove  her  pacing,  but  there  was  no  escape;  she  returned  to 
meet  it. 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  309 

The  room  was  a  cage  to  both  of  them,  and  every  word  of 
either  was  a  sting. 

"Percy,  I  did  not  imagine  he  would  use  it — make  use  of  it 
as  he  has  done." 

"Not?    And  when  he  paid  for  it?" 

"I  fancied  it  would  be  merely  of  general  service — if  any." 

"Distributed;  I  see:  not  leading  to  the  exposure  of  the 
communicant!" 

"You  are  harsh;  but  I  would  not  have  you  milder." 

The  meekness  of  such  a  mischief-doer  was  revolting  and 
called  for  the  lash. 

"Do  me  the  favor  to  name  the  sum.  I  am  curious  to  learn 
what  my  imbecility  was  counted  worth." 

"No  sum  was  named." 

"Have  I  been  bought  for  a  song?" 

"It  was  a  suggestion — no  definite  .  .  .  nothing  stipulated." 

"You  were  to  receive  money!" 

"Leave  me  a  bit  of  veiling!  No,  you  shall  behold  me  the 
thing  I  am.     Listen  ...  I  was  poor  .  .  ." 

"You  might  have  applied  to  me." 

"For  money!     That  I  could  not  do." 

"Better  than  betraying  me,  believe  me." 

"I  had  no  thought  of  betraying.  I  hope  I  could  have  died 
rather  than  consciously  betray." 

"Money!     My  whole  fortune  was  at  your  disposal." 

"I  was  beset  with  debts,  unable  to  write,  and,  last  night 
when  you  left  me,  abject.  It  seemed  to  me  that  you  disre- 
spected me  .  .  ." 

"Last  night!"  Dacier  cried  with  lashing  emphasis. 

"It  is  evident  to  me  that  I  have  the  reptile  in  me,  Percy. 
Or  else  I  am  subject  to  lose  my  reason.  I  went  ...  I  went 
like  a  bullet:  I  cannot  describe  it;  I  was  mad.  I  need  a  strong 
arm,  I  want  help.  I  am  given  to  think  that  I  do  my  best  and 
can  be  independent;  I  break  down.  I  went  blindly — ^now  I 
see  it— for  the  chance  oi  recovering  my  position,  as  the  gam- 
bler casts;  and  he  wins  or  loses.  With  me  it  is  the  soul  that 
is  lost.     No  exact  sum  was  named;  thousands  were  hinted." 

"You  are  hardly  practical  on  points  of  business." 

"I  was  insane." 

"I  think  you  said  you  slept  wxll  after  it,"  Dacier  remarked. 

"I  had  so  little  the  idea  of  having  done  evilly  that  I  slept 
without  a  dream." 


310  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

He  shrugged:  the  consciences  of  women  are  such  smooth 
deeps  or  running  shallows. 

"I  have  often  wondered  how  your  newspaper  men  got  their 
information/'  he  said,  and  muttered:  "Money — women!" 
adding:  "Idiots  to  prime  them!  And  I  one  of  the  leaky  ves- 
sels! Well,  we  learn.  I  have  been  rather  astonished  at  times 
of  late  at  the  scraps  of  secret  knowledge  displayed  by  Tonans. 
If  he  flourishes  his  thousands!  The  wonder  is  he  doesn't  cor- 
rupt the  Ministers'  wives.  Perhaps  he  does.  Marriage  will 
become  a  danger-sign  to  Parliamentary  members.  Foreign 
women  do  these  tricks  .  .  .  women  of  a  well-known  stamp. 
It  is  now  a  full  year,  I  think,  since  I  began  to  speak  to  you  of 
secret  matters — and  congratulated  myself,  I  recollect,  on  your 
thirst  for  them." 

"Percy,  if  you  suspect  that  I  have  uttered  one  word  before 
last  night  you  are  wrong.  I  cannot  paint  my  temptation  or 
my  loss  of  sense  last  night.  Previously  I  was  blameless.  I 
thirsted,  yes;  but  in  the  hope  of  helping  you." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  perceived  how  glitteringly  loveless 
his  eyes  had  grown.  It  was  her  punishment;  and,  though 
the  enamored  woman's  heart  protested  it  excessive,  she  ac- 
cepted it. 

"I  can  never  trust  you  again,"  he  said. 

"I  fear  you  will  not,"  she  replied. 

His  coming  back  to  her  after  the  departure  of  the  guests 
last  night  shone  on  him  in  splendid  colors  of  single-minded 
lover-Hke  devotion.  "I  came  to  speak  to  my  own  heart.  I 
thought  it  would  give  you  pleasure;  thought  I  could  trust  you 
utterly.  I  had  not  the  slightest  conception  I  was  imperiling 
my  honor!  ..." 

He  stopped.  Her  bloodless  fixed  features  revealed  an  in- 
tensity of  anguish  that  checked  him.  Only  her  mouth,  a 
little  open  for  the  sharp  breath,  appeared  dumbly  beseeching. 
Her  large  eyes  met  his  like  steel  to  steel,  as  of  one  who  would 
die  fronting  the  weapon. 

He  strangled  a  loathsome  inclination  to  admire. 

"So  good-bye,"  he  said. 

She  moved  her  lips. 

He  said  no  more.    In  half  a  minute  he  was  gone. 

To  her  it  was  the  plucking  of  life  out  of  her  breast. 

She  pressed  her  hands  where  heart  had  been.  The  pallor 
and  cold  of  death  took  her  body. 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  311 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

REVEALS  HOW  THE  TRUE  HEROINE  OF  ROMANCE  COMES 
FINALLY  TO  HER  TIME  OF  TRIUMPH. 

The  shutting  of  her  housedoor  closed  for  Dacier  that 
woman's  history  in  connection  with  himself.  lie  set  his  mind 
on  the  consequences  of  the  act  of  folly — the  trusting  a  secret 
to  a  woman.  All  were  possibly  not  so  bad:  none  should  be 
trusted. 

The  air  of  the  street  fanned  him  agreeably  as  he  revolved 
the  horrible  project  of  confession  to  the  man  who  had  put 
faith  in  him.  Particulars  might  be  asked.  She  would  be 
unnamed,  but  an  imagination  of  the  effect  of  naming  her 
placarded  a  notorious  woman  in  fresh  paint:  two  members  of 
the  same  family  her  victims! 

And  last  night — no  later  than  last  night — he  had  swung 
round  at  this  very  corner  of  the  street  to  give  her  the  fullest 
proof  of  his  affection.  He  beheld  a  dupe  trotting  into  a 
carefully-laid  pitfall.  She  had  him  by  the  generosity  of  his 
confidence  in  her.  Moreover,  the  recollection  of  her  recent 
feeble  phrasing,  when  she  stood  convicted  of  the  treachery, 
when  a  really  clever  woman  would  have  developed  her  re- 
sources, led  him  to  doubt  her  being  so  finely  gifted.  She 
was  just  clever  enough  to  hoodwink.  He  attributed  the 
dupery  to  a  trick  of  imposing  the  idea  of  her  virtue  upon 
men.  Attracted  by  her  good  looks  and  sparkle,  they  entered 
the  circle  of  her  charm,  became  delightfully  intimate,  suf- 
fered a  rebuff,  and  were  from  that  time  prepared  to  serve 
her  purpose.  How  many  other  wretched  dupes  had  she 
dangling?  He  spied  at  Westlake,  spied  at  Red  worth,  at 
the  departed  old  Lord  Larrian,  at  Lord  Dannisburgh,  at 
Arthur  Rhodes,  dozens.  Old  and  young  were  alike  to  her  if 
she  saw  an  end  to  be  gained  by  keeping  them  hooked. 
Tonans,  too,  and  Whitmonby.  Newspaper  editors  were 
especially  serviceable.  Perhaps  "a  young  Minister  of  State" 
held  the  foremost  rank  in  that  respect;  if  completely  duped 
and  squeezable  he  produced  more  substantial  stuff. 


312  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

The  background  of  ice  in  Dacier's  composition  was  brought 
to  the  front  by  his  righteous  contempt  of  her  treachery.  No 
explanation  of  it  would  have  appeased  him.  She  was  guilty, 
and  he  condemned  her.  She  stood  condemned  by  all  the 
evil  likely  to  ensue  from  her  misdeed.  Scarcely  had  he  left 
her  house  last  night  when  she  was  away  to  betray  him! — He 
shook  her  from  him  without  a  pang.  Crediting  her  with 
the  one  merit  she  had — that  of  not  imploring  for  mercy — he 
the  more  easily  shook  her  off.  Treacherous,  she  had  not 
proved  theatrical.  So  there  was  no  fuss  in  putting  out  her 
light,  and  it  was  done.  He  was  justified  by  the  brute  facts. 
Honorable,  courteous,  kindly  gentleman,  highly  civilized,  an 
excellent  citizen  and  a  patriot,  he  was  icy  at  an  outrage 
to  his  principles;  and  in  the  dominion  of  Love  a  sultan  of 
the  bow-string  and  chopper  period,  sovereignly  endowed  to 
stretch  a  finger  ''or  the  scimitared  Mesrour  to  make  the  erring 
woman  head  and  trunk  with  one  blow:  and  iway  with  those 
remnants!  This  internally  he  did.  Enough  that  the  brute 
■facts  Justified  him. 

St.  James's  Park  was  crossed,  and  the  grass  of  the  Green 
Park,  to  avoid  inquisitive  friends.  He  was  obliged  to  walk; 
exercise,  action  of  any  sort,  was  imperative,  and  but  for  some 
engagement  he  would  have  gone  to  his  fencing-rooms  for  a 
bout  with  the  master.  He  remembered  his  engagement  and 
grew  doubly  embittered.  He  had  absurdly  pledged  him- 
self to  lunch  with  Quintin  Manx;  that  was,  to  pretend  to 
eat  while  submitting  to  be  questioned  by  a  political  dullard 
strong  on  his  present  right  to  overhaul  and  rail  at  his  supe- 
riors. The  house  was  one  of  a  block  along  the  north- 
western line  of  Hyde  Park.  He  kicked  at  the  subjection  to 
go  there,  but  a  promise  was  binding,  though  he  gave  it  when 
stunned.  He  could  have  silenced  Mr.  Manx  with  the  posing 
interrogation:  Why  have  I  so  long  consented  to  put  myself 
at  the  mercy  of  a  bore?  For  him,  he  could  not  answer  it, 
though  Manx,  as  leader  of  the  shipping  interest,  was  influen- 
tial. The  man  had  to  be  endured,  like  other  doses  in  politics. 
Dacier  did  not  once  think  of  the  great  shipowner's  niece 
till  Miss  Constance  Asper  stepped  into  her  drawing-room  to 
welcome  him.  She  was  an  image  of  repose  to  his  mind. 
The  calm  pure  outline  of  her  white  features  refreshed  him 
as  the  Alps  the  Londoner  newly  alighted  at  Berne;  smoke,  ^ 
wrangle,  the  wrestling  city's  wickedness,  behind  him. 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  313 

"My  uncle  is  very  disturbed/'  she  said.  "Is  the  news — 
if  I  am  not  very  indiscreet  in  inquiring?" 

"I  have  a  practice  of  never  paying  attention  to  newspaper 
articles/'  Dacier  replied. 

"I  am  only  affected  by  living  with  one  who  does/'  Miss 
Asper  observed,  and  the  lofty  isolation  of  her  head  above 
politics  gave  her  a  moral  attractiveness  in  addition  to  phys- 
ical beauty.  Her  water-color  sketches  were  on  her  uncle's 
walls:  the  beautiful  in  nature  claimed  and  absorbed  her. 
She  dressed  with  a  pretty  rigor,  a  lovely  simplicity,  pic- 
turesque of  the  nunnery.  She  looked,  indeed,  a  high-born 
young  lady-abbess. 

"It's  a  dusty  game  for  ladies/'  Dacier  said,  abhorring  the 
women  defiled  by  it. 

And,  when  one  thinks  of  the  desire  of  men  to  worship 
women,  there  is  a  pathos  in  a  man's  discovery  of  the  fair 
young  creature  undefiled  by  any  interest  in  public  affairs, 
virginal  amid  her  bower's  environments.  ^ 

The  angelical  beauty  of  a  virgin  mind  and  person  capti- 
vated him,  by  contrast.  His  natural  taste  was  to  admire  it, 
shunning  the  lures  and  tangles  of  the  women  on  high  seas, 
notably  the  married:  who,  by  the  way,  contrive  to  ensnare 
us  through  wonderment  at  a  cleverness  caught  from  their 
traffic  with  the  masculine  world:  often — if  we  did  but  know 
— a  parrot-repetition  of  the  last  male  visitor's  remarks.  But 
that  which  the  fair  maiden  speaks,  though  it  may  be  simple, 
is  her  own. 

She,  too,  is  her  own:  or  vowed  but  to  one.  She  is  on  all 
sides  impressive  in  purity.  The  world  worships  her  as  its 
perfect  pearl:  and  we  are  brought  refreshingly  to  acknowl- 
edge that  the  world  is  right. 

By  contrast,  the  white  radiation  of  Innocence  distinguished 
Constance  Asper  celestially.  As  he  was  well  aware,  she  had 
long  preferred  him — the  reserved  among  many  pleading, 
pressing  suitors.  Her  steady  faithfulness  had  fed  on  the 
poorest  crumbs. 

He  ventured  to  express  the  hope  that  she  was  well. 

"Yes/'  she  answered,  with  eyelids  ^  lifted  softly  to  thank 
him  for  his  concern  in  so  humble  a  person. 

"You  look  a  little  pale,"  he  said. 

She  colored  like  a  sea-water  shell.  "I  am  inclined  to  pale- 
ness by  nature/' 


314  DIANA  OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

Her  uncle  disturbed  them.  Lunch  was  ready.  He  apolo- 
gized for  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Markland,  a  maternal  aunt  of 
Constance,  who  kept  house  for  them.  Quintin  Manx  fell 
upon  the  meats  and  then  upon  the  Minister.  Dacier  found 
himself  happily  surprised  by  the  accession  of  an  appetite.  He 
mentioned  it  to  escape  from  the  worrying  of  his  host,  as 
unusual  with  him  at  midday:  and  Miss  Asper,  supporting 
him  in  that  effort,  said  benevolently,  "Gentlemen  should 
eat:  they  have  so  many  fatigues  and  troubles.'^  She  herself 
did  not  like  to  be  seen  eating  in  public.  Her  lips  opened 
to  the  morsels  as  with  a  bird's  bill,  though  with  none  of 
the  pecking  eagerness  we  complacently  observe  in  poultry. 

"But  now,  I  say,  positively,  how  about  that  article?"  said 
Quintin. 

Dacier  visibly  winced,  and  Constance  immediately  said, 
"Oh!   spare  us  politics,  dear  uncle.'* 

Her  intercession  was  without  avail,  but  by  contrast  with 
the  woman  implicated  in  the  horrible  article  it  was  a  carol 
of  the  seraphs. 

"Come,  you  can  say  whether  there's  anything  in  it," 
Dacier's  host  pushed  him. 

"I  should  not  say  it  if  I  could,"  he  replied. 

The  mild  sweetness  of  Miss  Asper's  look  encouraged  him. 

He  was  touched  to  the  quick  by  hearing  her  say,  "You 
ask  for  Cabinet  secrets,  uncle.  All  secrets  are  holy,  but 
secrets  of  State  are  under  a  seal  next  to  divine." 

"Next  to  divine!  She  was  the  mouthpiece  of  his  ruling 
principle. 

"I'm  not  prying  into  secrets,"  Quintin  persisted.  "All  I 
want  to  know  is,  whether  there's  any  foundation  for  that 
article — all  London's  boiling  about  it,  I  can  tell  you — or  if 
it's  only  a  new.^paper's  humbug." 

"Clearly  the  oracle  for  you  is  the  editor's  office,"  rejoined 
Dacier. 

"A  pretty  sort  of  answer  I  should  get." 

"It  would  at  least  be  complimentary." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"The  net  was  cast  for  you — and  the  sight  of  a  fish  in 
it!"  •        ^  ^ 

Miss  Asper  almost  laughed.  "Have  you  heard  the  choir 
at  St.  Catherine's?"  she  asked. 

Dacier  had  not,     He  repented  of  his  worldliness,  and. 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  315 

drinking  persuasive  claret,  said  he  would  go  to  hear  it  next 
Sunday. 

"Do,"  she  murmured. 

"Well,  you  seem  to  be  a  pair  against  me,"  her  uncle 
grumbled.  "Anyhow  I  think  it's  important.  People  have 
been  talking  for  some  time,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  taken 
unawares;    I  won't  be  a  yoked  ox,  mind  you." 

"Have  you  been  sketching  lately?"  Dacier  asked  Miss 
Asper. 

"She  generally  filled  a  book  in  the  autumn,"  she  said. 

"May  I  see  it*?" 

"If  you  wish." 

They  had  a  short  tussle  with  her  uncle,  and  escaped.  He 
was  conducted  to  a  room  midway  upstairs:  an  heiress's  con- 
ception of  a  saintly  little  room;  and  more  impressive  in 
purity,  indeed  it  was,  than  a  saint's,  with  the  many  cruci- 
fixes, gold  and  silver  emblems,  velvet  prie-Dieu  chairs,  jewel- 
clasped  sacred  volumes :  every  invitation  to  meditate  in  luxury 
on  an  ascetic  religiousness. 

She  depreciated  her  sketching  powers.  "I  am  impatient 
with  my  imperfections.  I  am  therefore  doomed  not  to  ad- 
vance." 

"On  the  contrary,  that  is  the  state  guaranteeing  ultimate 
excellence,"  he  said,  much  disposed  to  drone  about  it. 
•   She  sighed:    "I  fear  not." 

He  turned  the  leaves,  comparing  her  modesty  with  the 
performance.  The  third  of  the  leaves  was  a  subject  instantly 
recognized  by  him.  It  represented  the  place  he  had  inherited 
from  Lord  Dannisburgh. 

He  named  it. 

She  smiled:  "You  are  good  enough  to  see  a  likeness?  My 
aunt  and  I  were  passing  it  last  October,  and  I  waited  for  a 
day,  to  sketch." 

"You  have  taken  it  from  my  favorite  point  of  view." 

"I  am  glad." 

"How  much  I  should  like  a  copy!" 

"If  you   will  accept  that?" 

"I  could  not  rob  you." 

"I  can  make  a  duplicate." 

"The  look  of  the  place  pleases  you?" 

"Oh!    yes;    the  pines  behind  it;    the  sweet  little  village 


316  DIANiA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

church;  even  the  appearance  of  the  rustics; — it  is  all  impress- 
ively old  English.    I  suppose  you  are  very  seldom  there?" 

"Does  it  look  like  a  home  to  you?" 

"N'o  place  more!" 

"I  feel  the  loneliness." 

"Where  I  live  I  feel  no  loneliness!" 

"You  have  heavenly  messengers  near  you." 

"They  do  not  always  come." 

"Would  you  consent  to  make  the  place  less  lonely  to  me?" 

Her  hosom  rose.  In  deference  to  her  maidenly  under- 
standing she  gazed  inquiringly. 

"If  you  love  it!"  said  he. 

"The  place?"  she  said,  looking  soft  at  the  possessor. 

"Constance!" 

"Is  it  true?" 

"As  you  yourself .  Could  it  be  other  than  true?  This  hand 
is  mine?" 

"Oh!  Percy.'' 

Borrowing  the  world's  poetry  to  describe  them,  the  long 
prayed-for  summer  enveloped  the  melting  snows. 

So  the  recollection  of  Diana's  watch  beside  his  uncle's 
death-bed  was  wiped  out.  Ay,  and  the  hissing  of  her 
treachery  silenced.  This  maidenly  hand  put  him  at  peace 
with  the  world,  instead  of  his  defying  it  for  a  worthless 
woman — who  could  not  do  better  than  accept  the  shelter  of 
her  husband's  house,  as  she  ought  to  be  told,  if  her  friends 
wished  her  to  save  her  reputation. 

Dacier  made  his  way  downstairs  to  Quintin  Manx,  by 
whom  he  was  hotly  congratulated  and  informed  of  the  extent 
of  the  young  lady's  fortune:  on  the  strength  of  which  it  was 
expected  that  he  would  certainly  speak  a  private  word  in 
elucidation  of  that  newspaper  article. 

"I  know  nothing  of  it,"  said  Dacier,  but  promised  to  come 
and  dine. 

Alone  in  her  happiness,  Constance  Asper  dispatched  various 
brief  notes  under  her  gold-symbolled  crest  to  sisterly  friends: 
one  to  Lady  Wathin,  containing  the  single  line: 

"Your  prophecy  is  confirmed." 

Dacier  was  comfortably  able  to  face  his  club  after  the 
excitement  of  a  proposal,  with  a  bride  on  his  hands.  He 
was  assaulted  concerning  the  article,  and  he  parried  capi- 
tally.   Say  that  her  lips  were  rather  cold:   at  any  rate,  they 


DlANiA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  317 

invigorated  him.  Her  character  was  guaranteed — not  the 
hazy  idea  of  a  dupe.  And  her  fortune  would  be  enormous:  a 
speculation  merely  due  to  worldly  prudence  and  prospective 
ambition. 

At  the  dinner-table  of  four,  in  the  evening,  conversation 
would  have  seemed  dull  to  him,  by  contrast,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  presiding  grace  of  his  bride,  whose  habitually  eminent 
feminine  air  of  superiority  to  the  repast  was  throned  by  her 
appreciative  receptiveness  of  his  looks  and  utterances.  Before 
leaving  her  he  won  her  consent  to  a  very  early  marriage — on 
the  plea  of  a  possibly  approaching  Session,  and  also  that  they 
had  waited  long.  The  consent,  notwithstanding  the  hurry 
of  preparations  it  involved,  besides  the  annihilation  of  her 
desire  to  meditate  on  so  solemn  a  change  in  her  life  and  savor 
the  congratulation  of  her  friends  and  have  the  choir  of  St. 
Catherine's  rigorously  drilled  in  her  favorite  anthems,  was 
beautifully  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  circumstances. 

There  lay  on  his  table  at  night  a  letter — a  bulky  letter.  No 
need  to  tear  it  open  for  sight  of  the  signature:  the  superscrip- 
tion was  redolent  of  that  betraying  woman.  He  tossed  it 
unopened  into  the  fire. 

As  it  was  thick,  it  burned  sullenly,  discoloring  his  name 
on  the  address,  as  she  had  done,  and  still  offering  him  a 
last  chance  of  viewing  the  contents.  She  fought  on  the 
consuming  fire  to  have  her  exculpation  heard. 

But  was  she  not  a  shameless  traitor?  She  had  caught 
him  by  his  love  of  his  country  and  hope  to  serve  it.  She 
had  wound  into  his  heart  to  bleed  him  of  all  he  knew  and 
sell  the  secrets  for  money.  A  wonderful  sort  of  eloquence 
lay  there,  on  those  coals,  no  doubt.  He  felt  a  slight  move- 
ment of  curiosity  to  glance  at  two  or  three  random  sentences: 
very  slight.  And  why  read  them  now?  They  w^ere  valueless 
to  him,  mere  outcries.  He  judged  her  by  the  brute  facts.  She 
and  her  slowly-consuming  letter  were  of  a  common  blackness. 
Moreover,  to  read  them  when  he  was  plighted  to  another 
woman  would  be  senseless.  In  the  discovery  of  her  baseness 
she  had  made  a  poor  figure.  Doubtless  during  the  afternoon 
she  had  trimmed  her  intuitive  Belial  art  of  making  "the 
worse  appear  the  better  cause":  queer  to  peruse^  and  instruct- 
ive in  an  unprofitable  department  of  knowledge — the  tricks  of 
her  sex. 

He  said  to  himself,  with  little  intuition  of  the  popular 


S18  DIANA    OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

taste:  She  wouldn't  be  a  bad  heroine  of  Eomance!  He  said 
it  derisively  of  the  Eomantic.  But  the  right  worshipful  hero- 
ine of  Romance  was  the  front-face  female  picture  he  had 
won  for  his  walls.  Poor  Diana  was  the  flecked  heroine  of 
Reality:  not  always  the  same;  not  impeccable;  not  an  igno- 
rant innocent,  nor  a  guileless:  good  under  good  leading;  de- 
voted to  the  death  in  a  grave  crisis;  often  wrestling  with  her 
terrestrial  nature  nobly;  and  a  growing  soul;  but  not  one 
whose  purity  was  carved  in  marble  for  the  assurance  to  an 
Englishman  that  his  possession  of  the  changeless  thing  defies 
time  and  his  fellows — is  the  pillar  of  his  home  and  universally 
enviable.  Your  fair  one  of  Romance  cannot  suffer  a  mishap 
without  a  plotting  villain,  perchance  many  of  them,  to  wreak 
the  dread  iniquity:  she  cannot  move  without  him;  she  is 
the  marble  block,  and,  if  she  is  to  have  a  feature,  he  is  the 
sculptor;  she  depends  on  hirn  for  life,  and  her  human  history 
at  least  is  married  to  him  far  more  than  to  the  rescuing  lover. 
No  wonder,  then,  that  men  should  find  her  thrice  cherishable 
featureless,  or  with  the  most  moderate  possible  indication  of 
a  countenance.  Thousands  of  the  excellent  simple  creatures 
do;  and  every  reader  of  her  tale.  On  the  contrary,  the  heroine 
of  Reality  is  that  woman  whom  you  have  met  or  heard  of 
once  in  j^our  course  of  years,  and  very  probably  despised  for 
bearing  in  her  composition  the  motive  principle;  at  best,  you 
say,  a  singular  mixture  of  good  and  bad;  anything  but  the 
feminine  ideal  of  man.  She  is  shamelessly  independent  of  the 
world's  wickedness.  Feature  to  some  excess,  you  think,  dis- 
tinguishes her.  Yet  she  furnishes  not  any  of  the  sweet  sensual 
excitement  pertaining  to  her  spotless  rival  pursued  by  villainy. 
She  knocks  at  the  doors  of  the  mind,  and  the  mind  must  open 
to  be  interested  in  her.  Mind  and  heart  must  be  widely  open 
to  excuse  her  sheer  descent  from  the  pure  ideal  of  man. 

Dacier's  wandering  reflections  all  came  back  in  crowds  to 
the  judicial  Bench  of  the  Black  Cap.  He  felt  finely,  apart 
from  the  treason,  that  her  want  of  money  degraded  her:  him, 
too,  by  contact.  Money  she  might  have  had  to  any  extent: 
upon  application  for  it,  of  course.  How  was  he  to  imagine 
that  she  wanted  money?  Smilingly,  as  she  welcomed  him  and 
his  friends,  entertaining  them  royally,  he  was  bound  to  think 
she  had  means.  A  decent  propriety  bound  him  not  to  think 
of  the  matter  at  all.  He  naturally  supposed  she  was  capable 
of  conducting  her  affairs.    And — ^money!    It  soiled  his  mem- 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  319 

ory:  though  the  hour  at  Eovio  was  rather  pretty,  and  the 
scene  at  Copsley  touching:  other  times  also  short  glimpses 
of  the  woman  were  taking.  The  flood  of  her  treachery  effaced 
them.  And  why  reflect?  Constance  called  to  him  to  look 
her  way. 

Diana's  letter  died  hard.  The  corners  were  burnt  to  black 
tissue,  with  an  edge  or  two  of  discolored  paper.  A  small 
frayed  central  heap  still  resisted,  and,  in  kindness  to  the  neces- 
sity for  privacy,  he  impressed  the  fire-tongs  to  complete  the 
execution.  After  which  he  went  to  his  desk  and  worked, 
under  the  presidency  of  Constance. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

IS  CONCLUSIVE  AS  TO  THE  HEARTLESSNESS  OF  WOMEN 
WITH  BRAINS. 

Hymeneal  rumors  are  those  which  might  be  backed  to  run 
a  victorious  race  with  the  tale  of  evil  fortune,  and  clearly  for 
the  reason  that  man's  livelier  half  is  ever  alert  to  speed  them. 
They  travel  with  an  astonishing  celerity  over  the  land,  like 
flames  of  the  dry  beacon-faggots  of  old  time  in  announcement 
of  the  invader  or  a  conquest,  gathering  as  they  go:  wherein, 
to  say  nothing  of  their  vastly  wider  range,  they  surpass  the 
electric  wires.  Man's  nuptial  half  is  kindlingly  concerned 
in  the  launch  of  a  new  couple;  it  is  the  business  of  the  sex: 
and  man  himself  (very  strangely,  but  nature  quickens  him 
still)  lends  a  not  unfavoring  eye  to  the  preparations  of  the 
matrimonial  vessel  for  its  oily  descent  into  the  tides,  where 
billows  will  soon  be  rising,  captain  and  mate  soon  discussing 
the  fateful  question  of  who  is  commander.  We  consent,  it 
appears,  to  hope  again  for  mankind;  here  is  another  chance! 
Or  else,  assuming  the  happiness  of  the  pair,  that  pomp  of 
ceremonial,  contrasted  with  the  little  wind-blown  candle  they 
carry  between  them,  catches  at  our  weaker  fibers.  After  so 
many  ships  have  foundered,  some  keel  up,  like  poisoned  fish  at 
the  first  drink  of  water,  it  is  a  gallant  spectacle,  let  us  avow; 
and  either  the  world  perpetuating  it  is  heroical,  or  nature 
incorrigible  in  the  species.    Marriages  are  unceasing.    Friends 


320  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

do  it,  and  enemies;  the  unknown  contractors  of  this  engage- 
ment, or  armistice,  inspire  an  interest.  It  certainly  is  both 
exciting  and  comforting  to  hear  that  man  and  woman  are 
ready  to  join  in  a  mutual  affirmative,  say  Yes  together  again. 
It  sounds  like  the  end  of  the  war. 

The  proclamation  of  the  proximate  marriage  of  a  young 
Minister  of  State  and  the  greatest  heiress  of  her  day — noto- 
riously *'T7ie  young  Minister  of  State"  of  a  famous  book  writ- 
ten by  the  beautiful,  now  writhing,  woman  madly  enamored 
of  him,  and  the  heiress  whose  dowry  could  purchase  a  duchy 
— this  was  a  note  to  make  the  gossips  of  England  leap  from 
their  beds  at  the  midnight  hour  and  wag  tongues  in  the 
market-place.  It  did  away  with  the  political  hubbub  over  the 
Tonans  article,  and  let  it  noise  abroad  like  nonsense.  The  Hon. 
Percy  Dacier  espouses  Miss  Asper;  and  she  rescues  him  from 
the  snares  of  a  siren,  he  her  from  th«^  toils  of  the  Papists.  She 
would  have  gone  over  to  them;  she  was  going  when  luckily 
for  the  Protestant  Faith,  Percy  Dacier  intervened  with  his 
proposal.  Town  and  country  buzzed  the  news;  and,  while 
that  dreary  League  trumped  about  the  business  of  the  nation, 
a  people  suddenly  become  Oriental  chattered  of  nothing  but 
the  blissful  union  to  be  celebrated  in  princely  state,  with 
every  musical  accessory,  short  of  operatic. 

Lady  Wathin  was  an  active  agent  in  this  excitement.  The 
excellent  woman  enjoyed  marriages  of  High  Life:  which,  as 
there  is  presumably  wealth  to  support  them,  are  manifestly 
under  sanction:  and  a  marriage  that  she  could  consider  one 
of  her  own  contrivance  had  a  delicate  flavor  of  a  marriage  in 
the  family;  not  quite  equal  to  the  seeing  a  dear  daughter  of 
her  numerous  progeny  conducted  to  the  altar,  but  excelling 
it  in  the  pomp  that  bids  the  heavens  opsn.  She  and  no  other 
spread  the  tidings  of  Miss  Asper's  debating  upon  the  step  to 
Rome  at  the  very  instant  of  Percy  Dacier's  declaration  of 
his  love;  and  it  was  a  beautiful  struggle,  that  of  the  half- 
dedicated  nun  and  her  deep-rooted  earthly  passion,  love  pre- 
vailing! She  sent  word  off  to  Lady  Dunstane:  "You  know 
the  interest  I  have  always  taken  in  dear  Constance  Asper,'' 
etc.;  inviting  her  to  come  on  a  visit  a  week  before  the  end  of 
the  month,  that  she  might  join  in  the  ceremony  of  a  wedding 
"likely  to  be  the  grandest  of  our  time."  Pitiful  though  it 
was  to  think  of  the  bridal  pair  having  but  eight  or  ten  days 
at  the  outside  for  a  honeymoon,  the  beauty  of  their  "mutual 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  321 

devotion  to   duty"  was   urged  by  Lady  Wathin  upon  all 
hearers. 

Lady  Dunstane  declined  the  invitation.  She  waited  to  hear 
from  her  friend,  and  the  days  went  by;  she  could  only  sorrow 
for  her  poor  Tony,  divining  her  state.  However  little  of 
wrong  in  the  circumstances,  they  imposed  a  silence  on  her 
decent  mind,  and  no  conceivable  shape  of  writing  would  trans- 
mit condolences.  She  waited,  with  a  dull  heartache — by  no 
means  grieving  at  Dacier's  engagement  to  the  heiress — until 
Redworth  animated  her,  as  the  bearer  of  rather  startling  intel- 
ligence, indirectly  relating  to  the  soul  she  loved.  An  accident 
in  the  street  had  befallen  Mr.  AYarwick.  Redworth  wanted  to 
know  whether  Diana  should  be  told  of  it,  though  he  had  no 
particulars  to  give;  and,  somewhat  to  his  disappointment. 
Lady  Dunstane  said  she  would  write.  She  delayed,  thinking 
the  accident  might  not  be  serious;  and  the  information  of  it  to 
Diana  surely  would  be  so. 

Next  day  at  noon  her  visitor  was  Lady  Wathin,  evidently 
perturbed  and  anxious  to  say  more  than  she  dared:  but  she 
received  no  assistance.  After  beating  the  air  in  every  direction, 
especially  dwelling  on  the  fond  reciprocal  affection  of  the  two 
devoted  lovers,  to  be  united  within  three  days'  time,  Lady 
Wathin  said  at  last:  "And  is  it  not  shocking!  I  talk  of  a 
marriage  and  am  appalled  by  a  death.  That  poor  man  died 
last  night  in  the  hospital.  I  mean  poor  Mr.  Warwick.  He 
was  recovering,  getting  strong  and  well,  and  he  was  knocked 
down  at  a  street-crossing  and  died  last  night.  It  is  a  warning 
to  us!" 

"Mr.  Eedworth  happened  to  hear  of  it  at  his  club,  near 
which  the  accident  occurred,  and  he  called  at  the  hospital.  Mr. 
Warwick  was  then  aHve,"  said  Lady  Dunstane;  adding,  "Well, 
if  prevention  is  better  than  cure,  as  we  hear,  accidents  are  the 
specific  for  averting  the  maladies  of  age,  which  are  a  certain 
crop!" 

Lady  Wathin's  eyelids  worked  and  her  lips  shut  fast  at 
the  cold-hearted  remark  void  of  meaning. 

She  sighed.    "So  ends  a  life  of  misery,  my  dear!" 

"You  are  compassionate." 

"I  hope  so.  But  .  .  .  Indeed  I  must  speak,  if  you  will 
let  me.     I  think  of  the  living." 

Lady  Dunstane  widened  her  eyes.     "Of  Mrs.  Warwick?" 

"She  has  now  the  freedom  she  desired.    I  think  of  others. 

21 


322  DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

Forgive  me,  but  Constance  Asper  is  to  me  as  a  daughter.  I 
have  perhaps  no  grounds  for  any  apprehension.  Love  so 
ardent,  so  sincere,  was  never  shown  by  bridegroom  elect:  and 
it  is  not  extraordinary  to  those  acquainted  with  dear  Con- 
stance. But  one  may  be  a  worshiped  saint  and  experience 
defection.  The  terrible  stories  one  hears  of  a  power  of  fas- 
cination almost     .     .     .!"    Lady  Wathin  hung  for  the  word. 

"Infernal,"  said  Lady  Dunstane,  whose  brows  had  been  bent 
inquiringly.  "Have  no  fear.  The  freedom  you  allude  to  will 
not  be  used  to  interfere  with  any  entertainment  in  prospect. 
It  was  freedom  my  friend  desired.  Now  that  her  jewel  is 
restored  to  her  she  is  not  the  person  to  throw  it  away,  be  sure. 
And  pray,  drop  the  subject." 

"One  may  rely     .     .     .     you  think?" 

"Oh!  oh!" 

"This  release  coming  just  before  the  wedding!     .     .     ." 

"I  should  hardly  suppose  the  man  to  be  the  puppet  you 
depict  or  indicate." 

"It  is  because  men — so  many — are  not  puppets  that  one  is 
conscious  of  alarm." 

"Your  previous  remark,"  said  Lady  Dunstane,  "sounded 
superstitious.  Your  present  one  has  an  antipodal  basis.  But, 
as  for  your  alarm,  check  it;  and  spare  me  further.  My  friend 
has  acknowledged  powers.  Considering  that  she  does  not  use 
them  you  should  learn  to  respect  her." 

Lady  "Wathin  bowed  stiffly.  She  refused  to  partake  of 
lunch,  having,  she  said,  satisfied  her  conscience  by  the  per- 
formance of  a  duty  and  arranged  with  her  flyman  to  catch  a 
train.  Iler  cousin  Lady  Dunstane  smiled  loftily  at  every- 
thing she  uttered;  and  she  felt  that  if  a  woman  like  this  Mrs. 
Warwick  could  put  division  between  blood-relatives  she  could 
do  worse,  and  was  to  be  dreaded  up  to  the  hour  of  the  nup- 
tials. 

"I  meant  no  harm  in  coming,"  she  said,  at  the  shaking  of 
hands. 

"No,  no;  I  understand,"  said  her  hostess:  "you  are  hen- 
hearted  over  your  adopted  brood.  The  situation  is  percep- 
tible and  your  intention  creditable." 

As  one  of  the  good  women  of  the  world.  Lady  Wathin  in 
departing  was  indignant  at  the  tone  and  dialect  of  a  younger 
woman  not  modestly  concealing  her  possession  of  the  larger 
brain.    Brains  in  women  she  both  dreaded  and  detested;  she 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  323 

believed  them  to  be  devilish.  Here  were  instances:  they  had 
driven  poor  Sir  Lukin  to  evil  courses  and  that  poor  Mr.  War- 
wick straight  under  the  wheels  of  a  cab.  Sir  Lukin's  name 
was  trotting  in  public  with  a  naughty  Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett's. 
Mrs.  Warwick  might  still  trim  her  arts  to  baffle  the  marriage. 
Women  with  brains,  moreover,  are  all  heartless :  they  have  no 
pity  for  distress,  no  horror  of  catastrophes,  no  joy  in  the  hap- 
piness of  the  deserving.  Brains  in  men  advance  a  household 
to  station;  but  brains  in  women  divide  it  and  are  the  wrecking 
of  society.  Fortunately  Lady  Wathin  knew  she  could  rally 
a  powerful  moral  contingent,  the  aptitude  of  which  for  a  one- 
minded  cohesion  enabled  it  to  crush  those  fractional  daughters 
of  mischief.  She  was  a  really  good  woman  of  the  world,  head- 
ing a  multitude;  the  same  whom  you  are  accustomed  to  hear 
exalted;  lucky  in  having  had  a  guided  girlhood,  a  thick-cur- 
tained prudence;  and  in  having  stock  in  the  moral  funds, 
shares  in  the  sentimental  tramways.  Wherever  the  world  laid 
its  hoards  or  ran  its  lines  she  was  found,  and  forcible  enough 
to  be  eminent;  though  at  fixed  hours  of  the  day,  even  as 
she  washed  her  hands,  she  abjured  worldliness:  a  perform- 
ance that  cleansed  her.  If  she  did  not  make  morality  appear 
lovable  to  the  objects  of  her  dislike  it  was  owing  to  her  want 
of  brains  to  see  the  origin,  nature,  and  right  ends  of  morality. 
But  a  world  yet  more  deficient  than  she  esteemed  her  cordially 
for  being  a  bulwark  of  the  present  edifice:  which  looks  a  solid 
structure  when  the  microscope  is  not  applied  to  its  com- 
ponents. 

Supposing  Percy  Dacier  a  dishonorable  tattler  as  well  as  an 
icy  lover,  and  that  Lady  Wathin,  through  his  bride,  had 
become  privy  to  the  secret  between  him  and  Diana?  There 
is  reason  to  think  that  she  would  have  held  it  in  terror  over 
the  baneful  woman,  but  not  have  persecuted  her:  for  she 
was  by  no  means  the  active  malignant  of  theatrical  plots. 
No,  she  would  have  charged  it  upon  the  possession  of  brains 
by  women,  and  have  had  a  further  motive  for  inciting  the 
potent  dignitary  her  husband  to  employ  his  authority  to  re- 
press the  sex's  exercise  of  those  fell  weapons,  hurtful  alike 
to  them  and  all  coming  near  them. 

So  extreme  was  her  dread  of  Mrs.  Warwick  that  she  drove 
from  the  London  railway  station  to  see  Constance  and  be  re- 
assured by  her  tranquil  aspect. 


^24  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

Sweet  Constance  and  her  betrothed  Percy  were  together, 
examining  a  missal. 

Lady  Dunstane  dispatched  a  few  words  of  the  facts  to  Diana. 
She  hoped  to  hear  from  her:  rather  hoped,  for  the  moment, 
not  to  see  her.  No  answer  came.  The  great  day  of  the  nup- 
tials came  and  passed.  She  counted  on  her  husband's  appear- 
ance the  next  morning,  as  the  good  gentleman  made  a  point  of 
visiting  her,  to  entertain  the  wife  he  adored,  whenever  he 
had  a  wallet  of  gossip  that  would  overlay  the  blank  of  his 
absence.  He  had  been  to  the  church  of  the  wedding — he  did 
not  say  with  whom — all  the  world  was  there;  and  he  raptur- 
ously described  the  ceremony,  stating  that  it  set  women  weep- 
ing and  caused  him  to  behave  like  a  fool. 

"You  are  impressionable,"  said  his  wife. 

He  murmured  something  in  praise  of  the  institution  of 
marriage — when  celebrated  impressively,  it  seemed. 

"Tony  calls  the  social  world  ^the  theater  of  appetites,'  as 
we  have  it  at  present,"  she  said;  "and  the  world  at  a  wedding 
is,  one  may  reckon,  in  the  second  act  of  the  hungry  tragi- 
comedy." 

"Yes,  there's  the  breakfast,"  Sir  Lukin  assented.  Mrs. 
Fryar-Gunnett  was  much  more  intelligible  to  him:  in  fact, 
quite  so,  as  to  her  speech. 

Emma's  heart  now  yearned  to  her  Tony.  Consulting  her 
strength,  she  thought  she  might  journey  to  London,  and  on 
the  third  morning  after  the  Dacier-Asper  marriage  she 
started. 

Diana's  door  was  open  to  Arthur  Ehodes  when  Emma 
reached  it. 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  she  asked  him. 

His  head  shook  dolefully.  "Mrs.  Warwick  is  unwell;  she 
has  been  working  too  hard." 

"You  also,  I'm  afraid." 

"No."    He  could  deny  that,  whatever  the  look  of  him. 

"Come  to  me  at  Copsley  soon,"  said  she,  entering  to  Dan- 
vers  in  the  passage. 

"My  mistress  is  upstairs,  my  lady,"  said  Danvers.  "She 
is  lying  on  her  bed." 

"She  is  ill?" 

"She  has  been  lying  on  her  bed  ever  since." 

"Since  what?"  Lady  Dunstane  spoke  sharply. 


DIANA    OF    THE   CROSSWAYS.  325 

Danvers  retrieved  her  indiscretion.  ^'Since  she  heard  of 
the  accident,  my  lady." 

"Take  my  name  to  her.    Or,  no:    I  can  venture." 

"I  am  not  allowed  to  go  in  and  speak  to  her.  You  will 
find  the  room  quite  dark,  my  lady,  and  very  cold.  It  is  her 
command.  My  mistress  will  not  let  me  light  the  fire;  and 
she  has  not  eaten  or  drank  of  anything  since.  .  .  She  will 
die  if  you  do  not  persuade  her  to  take  nourishment;  a  little, 
for  a  beginning.    It  wants  the  beginning." 

Emma  went  upstairs,  thinking  of  the  enigmatical  maid, 
that  she  must  be  a  good  soul  after  all.  Diana's  bedroom 
door  was  opened  slowly. 

"You  will  not  be  able  to  see  at  first,  my  lady,"  Danvers 
whispered.  "The  bed  is  to  the  left,  and  a  chair.  I  would 
bring  in  a  candle,  but  it  hurts  her  eyes.    She  forbids  it." 

Emma  stepped  in.  The  chill,  thick  air  of  the  unlighted 
London  room  was  cavernous.  She  almost  forgot  the  beloved 
of  her  heart  in  the  thought  that  a  living  woman  had  been 
lying  here  more  than  two  days  and  nights,  fasting.  The 
proof  of  an  uttermost  misery  revived  the  circumstances  within 
her  to  render  her  friend's  presence  in  this  desert  of  darkness 
credible.  She  found  the  bed  by  touch,  silently,  and  distin- 
guished a  dark  heap  on  the  bed;  she  heard  no  breathing.  She 
sat  and  listened;  then  she  stretched  her  hand  and  met  her 
Tony's.    It  lay  open.    It  was  the  hand  of  a  drowned  woman. 

Shutters  and  curtains  and  the  fireless  grate  gave  the  room 
an  appalling  likeness  to  the  vaults. 

So  like  to  the  home  of  death  it  seemed  that  in  a  few 
minutes  the  watcher  had  lost  count  of  time  and  kept  but  a 
wormy  memory  of  the  daylight.  She  dared  not  speak,  for 
some  fear  of  startling;  for  the  worse  fear  of  never  getting 
answer.  Tony's  hand  was  lifeless.  Her  clasp  of  it  struck 
no  warmth. 

She  stung  herself  with  bitter  reproaches  for  having  let  com- 
mon mundane  sentiments,  worthy  of  a  Lady  Wathin,  bar  her 
instant  offer  of  her  bosom  to  the  beloved  who  suffered  m  this 
depth  of  mortal  agony.  Tony's  love  of  a  man,  as  she  should 
have  known,  would  be  wrought  of  the  elements  of  our  being: 
when  other  women  named  Happiness,  she  said  Life;  in  divi- 
sion. Death.  Her  body  lying  still  upon  the  bed  here  was  a 
soul  borne  onward  by  the  river  of  Death. 

The  darkness  gave  her  sight  after  a  while,  like  a  curtain 


326  DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

lifting  on  a  veil;  the  dead  light  of  the  underworld.  Tony  lay 
with  her  face  up,  her  underlip  dropped;  straight  from  head 
to  feet.  The  outline  of  her  face,  without  hue  of  it,  could  be 
seen :  sign  of  the  hapless  women  that  have  souls  in  love.  Hate- 
ful love  of  men!  Emma  thought,  and  was  moved  to  feel  at  the 
wrist  for  her  darling's  pulse.  He  has  killed  her!  the  thought 
flashed,  as,  with  pangs  chilling  her  frame,  the  pressure  at 
the  wrist  continued  insensible  of  the  faintest  beat.  She 
clasped  it,  trembling,  in  pain  to  stop  an  outcry. 

"It  is  Emmy,"  said  the  voice. 

Emma's  heart  sprang  to  Heaven  on  a  rush  of  thanks. 

"My  Tony,"  she  breathed  softly. 

She  hung  for  a  further  proof  of  life  in  the  motionless  body. 
"Tony!"  she  said. 

The  answer  was  at  her  hand,  a  thread-like  return  of  her 
clasp. 

"It  is  Emmy  come  to  stay  with  you,  never  to  leave  you." 

The  thin,  still  answer  was  at  her  hand  a  moment;  the 
fingers  fell  away.  A  deep  breath  was  taken  twice  to  say,  "Don't 
talk  to  me." 

Emma  retained  the  hand.  She  was  warned  not  to  press 
it  by  the  deadness  following  its  effort  to  reply. 

But  Tony  lived;  she  had  given  proof  of  life.  Over 'this 
little  wavering  taper  in  the  vaults  Emma  cowered,  cherishing 
the  hand,  silently  hoping  for  the  voice. 

It  came,  "Winter." 

"It  is  a  cold  winter,  Tony." 

"My  dear  will  be  cold." 

"I  will  light  the  fire." 

Emma  lost  no  time  in  deciding  to  seek  the  matchbox.  The 
fire  was  lit  and  it  flamed;  it  seemed  a  revival  in  the  room. 
Coming  back  to  the  bedside  she  discerned  her  Tony's  lack- 
luster, large  dark  eyes  and  her  hollow  cheeks;  her  mouth  open 
to  air  as  to  the  dra wing-in  of  a  sword — rather  as  to  the  releaser 
than  the  sustainer.  Her  feet  were  on  the  rug  her  maid  had 
placed  to  cover  them.  Emma  leaned  across  the  bed  to  put 
them  to  her  breast,  beneath  her  fur  mantle;  and  held  them 
there  despite  the  half -animate  tug  of  the  limbs  and  the  shaft 
of  iciness  they  sent  to  her  very  heart.  When  she  had  restored 
them  to  some  warmth  she  threw  aside  her  bonnet,  and,  lying 
beside  Tony,  took  her  in  her  arms,  heaving  now  and  then  a 
deep  sigh. 


DIA-NA    OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  327 

She  kissed  her  cheek. 

"It  is  Emmy.    Kiss  her." 

"I  have  no  strength." 

Emma  laid  her  face  on  the  lips.  They  were  cold;  even 
the  hreath  between  them  cold. 

"Has  Emmy  been  long     .     .     .?" 

"Here,  dear?    I  think  so.    I  am  with  my  darling." 

Tony  moaned.  The  warmth  and  the  love  were  bringing 
back  her  anguish. 

She  said,  "I  have  been  happy.    It  is  not  hard  to  go." 

Emma  strained  to  her.  "Tony  will  wait  for  her  soul's  own 
soul  to  go — the  two  together." 

There  was  a  faint  convulsion  in  the  body.  "If  I  cry,  I 
shall  go  in  pain." 

"You  are  in  Emmy's  arms,  my  beloved." 

Tony's  eyes  closed  for  forgetfulness  under  that  sensation. 
A  tear  ran  down  from  her,  but  the  pain  was  lax  and  neigh- 
bored sleep,  like  the  pleasure. 

So  passed  the  short  winter  day,  little  spoken. 

Then  Emma  bethought  her  of  a  way  of  leading  Tony  to  take 
food,  and  she  said,  "I  shall  stay  with  you;  I  shall  send  for 
clothes;  I  am  rather  hungry.  Don't  stir,  dear.  I  will  be  mis- 
tress of  the  house." 

She  went  below  to  the  kitchen,  where  a  few  words  in  the 
ear  of  a  Frenchwoman  were  sufficient  to.  waken  immediate 
comprehension  of  what  was  wanted,  and  smart  service:  within 
ten  minutes  an  appetizing  bouillon  sent  its  odor  over  the  bed- 
room. Tony,  days  back,  had  said  her  last  to  the  act  of  eat- 
ing; but  Emma,  sipping  at  the  spoon  and  expressing  satisfac- 
tion, was  a  pleasant  picture.    The  bouillon  smelt  pleasantly. 

"Your  servants  love  you,"  Emma  said. 

"Ah,  poor  good  souls!" 

"They  crowded  up  to  me  to  hear  of  you.  Madame,  of 
course,  at  the  first  word  was  off  to  her  pots.  And  we  English 
have  the  habit  of  calling  ourselves  the  practical  people!  This 
bouillon  is  consummate.  However,  we  have  the  virtues  of  bar- 
barians; we  can  love  and  serve  for  love.  I  never  tasted  any- 
thing so  good.    I  could  become  a  glutton." 

"Do,"  said  Tony. 

"I  should  be  ashamed  to  'drain  the  bowl'  all  to  myself:  a 
solitary  toper  is  a  horrid  creature,  unless  he  makes  a  song 
of  it." 


32S  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"Emmy  makes  a  song  of  it  to  me." 

"But  'pledge  me'  is  a  noble  saying,  when  yon  think  of 
humanity's  original  hunger  for  the  whole.  It  is  there  that 
our  civilizing  commenced,  and  I  am  particularly  fond  of 
hearing  the  call.  It  is  grandly  historic.  So  pledge  me,  Tony. 
We  two  can  feed  from  one  spoon;  it  is  a  closer  bond  than  the 
loving-cup.  I  want  you  just  to  taste  it  and  excuse  my  glut- 
tony." 

Tony  murmured,  "N"o."  The  spoon  was  put  to  her  mouth. 
She  sighed  to  resist.  The  stronger  will  compelled  her  to  move 
her  lips.  Emma  fed  her  as  a  child,  and  nature  sucked  for 
life. 

The  first  effect  was  a  gush  of  tears. 

Emma  lay  with  her  that  night,  when  the  patient  was  the 
better  sleeper.  But  during  the  night,  at  intervals,  she  had 
the  happiness  of  feeling  Tony's  hand  traveling  to  make  sure 
of  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

AN  EXHIBITION  OF  SOME  CHAMPIONS  OP  THE  STRICKEN 

LADY. 

Close  upon  the  hour  of  ten  every  morning  the  fortuitous 
meeting  of  two  gentlemen  at  Mrs.  Warwick's  house-door  was 
a  signal  for  punctiliously  stately  greetings,  the  salutation  of 
the  raised  hat  and  a  bow  of  the  head  from  a  position  of  mili- 
tary erectness,  followed  by  the  remark:  "I  trust  you  are  well, 
sir;"  to  which  the  reply,  "I  am  very  well,  sir,  and  trust  you 
are  the  same,"  was  deemed  a  complimentary  fulfillment  of 
their  mutual  obligation  in  presence.  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith's 
initiative  imparted  this  exercise  of  formal  manners  to  Mr. 
Arthur  Rhodes,  whose  renewed  appearance,  at  the  minute 
of  his  own  arrival,  he  viewed,  as  he  did  not  conceal,  with  a 
disappointed  and  a  reproving  eye.  The  inquiry  after  the  state 
of  Mrs.  Warwick's  health  having  received  its  tolerably  com- 
forting answer  from  the  footman,  they  left  their  cards  in  turn, 
then  descended  the  doorsteps,  faced  for  the  performance  of  the 
salute,  and  departed  their  contrary  ways. 

The  pleasing  intelligence  refreshed  them  one  morning  that 
they  would  be  welcomed  by  Lady  Dunstane.    Thereupon  Mr. 


DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  329 

Sullivan  Smith  wheeled  about  to  Mr.  Arthur  Rhodes,  and 
ob-^^erved  to  him:  "Sir,  I  might  claim,  by  right  of  seniority, 
to  be  the  foremost  of  us  two  in  offering  my  respects  to  the  lady, 
but  the  way  is  open  to  you." 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  Arthur  Rhodes,  "permit  me  to  defer  to  your 
many  superior  titles  to  that  distinction." 

"The  honor,  sir,  lies  rather  in  the  bestowing  than  in  the 
taking." 

"I  venture  to  think,  sir,  that,  though  I  cannot  speak  pure 
Castilian,  I  require  no  lesson  from  a  grandee  of  Spain  in 
acknowledging  the  dues  of  my  betters." 

"I  will  avow  myself  conquered,  sir,  by  your  overpowering 
condescension,"  said  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith;  "and  I  entreat  you  to 
ascribe  my  acceptance  of  your  brief  retirement  to  the  urgent 
character  of  the  business  I  have  at  heart." 

He  laid  his  fingers  on  the  panting  spot,  and  bowed. 

Mr.  Arthur  Rhodes,  likewise  bowing,  deferentially  fell  to 
rearward. 

"If  I  mistake  not,"  said  the  Irish  gentleman,  "I  am  in- 
debted to  Mr.  Rhodes;  and  we  have  been  joint  participators 
in  the  hospitality  of  Mrs.  Warwick's  table." 

The  English  gentleman  replied:  "It  was  there  that  I  first 
had  the  pleasure  of  an  acquaintance  which  is  graven  on  my 
memory  as  the  words  of  the  wise  king  on  tablets  of  gold 
and  silver." 

Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  gravely  smiled  at  the  unwonted  match 
he  had  found  in  ceremonious  humor  in  Saxonland,  and  say- 
ing, "I  shall  not  long  detain  you,  Mr.  Rhodes,"  he  passed 
through  the  doorway. 

Arthur  waited  for  him,  pacing  up  and  down,  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  when  a  totally  different  man  reappeared  in  the 
same  person,  and  was  the  Sullivan  Smith  of  the  rosy,  beam- 
ing features  and  princely  heartiness.  He  was  accosted:  "Now, 
my  dear  boy,  it's  your  turn  to  try  if  you  have  a  chance,  and 
good  luck  go  with  ye.  I've  said  what  I  could  on  your  behalf, 
for  you're  one  of  ten  thousand  in  this  country,  you  are." 

Mr.  Sullivan  Smith  had  solemnified  himself  to  proffer  a 
sober  petition  within  the  walls  of  the  newly  widowed  lady's 
house,  namely,  for  nothing  less  than  that  sweet  lady's  now 
unfettered  hand:  and  it  had,  therefore,  been  perfectly  natu- 
ral to  him,  until  his  performance  ended  with  the  destruction 
of  his  hopes,  to  deliver  himself  in  the  high  Castilian  manner. 


330  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

Quite  unexpected,  however,  was  the  reciprocal  loftiness  of  tone 
spontaneously  adopted  by  the  young  English  squire,  for  whom, 
in  consequence,  he  conceived  a  cordial  relish;  and  as  he  paced 
in  the  footsteps  of  Arthur,  anxious  to  quiet  his  curiosity  by 
hearing  how  it  had  fared  with  one  whom  he  had  to  suppose 
the  second  applicant,  he  kept  ejaculating,  "Not  a  bit!  The 
fellow  can't  be  Saxon!  And  she  had  a  liking  for  him.  She's 
nigh  coming  of  the  age  when  a  woman  takes  to  the  chicks. 
Better  he  than  another,  if  it's  to  be  any  one.  For  he's  got  fun 
m  him;  he  carries  his  own  condiments,  instead  of  borrowing 
from  the  popular  castors,  as  is  their  way  over  here.  But  I  might 
have  known  there's  always  sure  to  be  salt  and  savor  in  the 
man  she  covers  with  her  wing.  Excepting,  if  you  please,  my 
dear  lady,  a  bad  vshot  you  made  at  a  rascal  cur,  no  more  worthy 
of  you  than  Beelzebub  of  Paradise.  No  matter!  The  daugh- 
ters of  Erin  must  share  the  fate  of  their  mother  isle,  that  their 
tears  may  shine  in  the  burst  of  sun  to  follow.  For  personal 
and  patriotic  motives  I  would  have  cheered  her;  and  been  like 
a  wild  ass,  combed  and  groomed  and  tamed  by  the  adorable 
creature.  But  her  friend  says  there's  not  a  whisk  of  a  chance 
for  me,  and  I  must  roam  the  desert,  kicking  up,  and  worship- 
ing the  star  I  hail  brightest.  They  know  me  not  who  think 
I  can't  worship.  Why,  what  were  I  without  my  star?  At 
best  a  pickled  porker." 

Sullivan  Smith  became  aware  of  a  ravishing  melodious- 
ness in  the  soliloquy,  as  well  as  a  clean  resemblance  in  the 
simile.  He  would  certainly  have  proceeded  to  improvise  im- 
passioned verse  if  he  had  not  seen  Arthur  Rhodes  on  the 
pavement.     "So,  here's  the  boy.     Query,  the  face  he  wears." 

"How  kind  of  you  to  wait,"  said  Arthur. 

"We'll  call  it  sympathy,  for  convenience,"  rejoined  Sullivan 
Smith.    "Well,  and  what  next?" 

"You  know  as  much  as  I  do.  Thank  Heaven,  she  is  recov- 
ering." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Why,  what  more?" 

Arthur  was  jealously  inspected. 

"You  look  open-hearted,  my  dear  boy."  Sullivan  Smith 
blew  the  sound  of  a  reflective  ahem.  "Excuse  me  for  corne- 
musing  in  your  company,"  he  said.  "But,  seriously,  there  was 
only  one  thing  to  pardon  your  hurrying  to  the  lady's  door  at 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  331 

such  a  season,  when  the  wind  tells  tales  to  the  world.  She's 
down  with  a  cold,  you  know." 

"An  influenza/'  said  Arthur. 

The  simplicity  of  the  acquiescence  was  vexatious  to  a  cham- 
pion desirous  of  hostilities,  to  vindicate  the  lady,  in  addition 
to  his  anxiety  to  cloak  her  sad  plight. 

"She  caught  it  from  contact  with  one  of  the  inhabitants  of 
this  country.  'Tis  the  fate  of  us  Irish,  and  we're  condemned 
to  it  for  the  sin  of  getting  tired  of  our  own.  I  begin  to  sneeze 
when  I  land  at  Holyhead.  Unbutton  a  waistcoat  here,  in  the 
hope  of  meeting  a  heart,  and  you're  lucky  in  escaping  a  pul- 
monary attack  of  no  common  severity,  while  the  dog  that 
infected  you  scampers  off,  +o  celebrate  his  honeymoon  may- 
hap. Ah,  but  call  at  her  house  in  shoals,  the  world'll  soon  be 
saying  it's  worse  than  a  coughing  cold.  If  you  came  to  lead 
her  out  of  it  in  triumph  the  laugh  'd  be  with  you,  and  the 
lady  well  covered.    D'ye  understand?" 

The  allusion  to  the  dog's  honeymoon  had  put  Arthur 
Ehodes  on  the  track  of  the  darting  cracker-metaphor. 

"I  think  I  do,"  he  said.  "She  will  soon  be  at  Copsley — 
Lady  Dunstane's  house,  on  the  hills — and  there  we  can  see 
her." 

"And  that's  next  to  the  happiness  of  consoling — if  only  it 
had  been  granted!  She's  not  an  ordinary  widow,  to  be  caught 
Avhen  the  tear  of  lamentation  has  opened  a  practicable  path  or 
water-way  to  the  poor  nightcapped  jewel  within.  So,  and 
you're  a  candid  admirer,  Mr.  Ehodes!  Well,  and  I'll  be  one 
with  you;  for  there's  not  a  star  in  the  firmament  more  deserv- 
ing of  homage  than  that  lady." 

"Let's  walk  in  the  Park  and  talk  of  her,"  said  Arthur. 
"There's  no  sweeter  subject  to  me." 

His  boyish  frankness  rejoiced  Sullivan  Smith.  "As  long 
as  you  like! — nor  to  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "And  that  ever 
since  I  first  beheld  her  on  the  night  of  a  ball  in  Dublin:  be- 
fore I  had  listened  to  a  word  of  her  speaking:  and  she  bore 
her  father's  Irish  name: — none  of  your  Warwicks  and  your 
.  .  .  But  let  the  cur  go  barking.  He  can't  tell  what  he's 
lost;  perhaps  he  doesn't  care.  And  after  inflicting  his  hydro- 
phobia on  her  tender  fame!  Pooh!  sir;  you  call  it  a  civilized 
country,  where  you  and  I  and  dozens  of  others  are  ready  to 
start  up  as  brothers  of  the  lady,  to  defend  her,  and  are  par- 


332  DIAN'A   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

alyzed  by  the  law.  'Tis  a  law  they've  instituted  for  the  protec- 
tion of  dirty  dogs — their  majority!'' 

^^I  owe  more  to  Mrs.  Warwick  than  to  any  soul  I  know," 
said  Arthur. 

"Let's  hear/'  quoth  Sullivan  Smith;  proceeding:  "She's 
the  Arabian  Nights  in  person,  that's  sure;  and  Shakespeare's 
Plays,  tragic  and  comic;  and  the  Book  of  Celtic  History;  and 
Erin  incarnate — down  with  a  cold,  no  matter  where;  but  we 
know  where  it  was  caught.  So  there's  a  pretty  library  for 
who's  to  own  her  now  she's  enfranchised  by  circumstances; — 
and  a  poetical  figure,  too!" 

He  subsided  for  his  companion  to  rhapsodize. 

Arthur  was  overcharged  with  feeling,  and  could  say  only, 
"It  would  be  another  world  to  me  if  I  lost  her." 

"True;   but  what  of  the  lady?" 

"No  praise  of  mine  could  do  her  justice." 

"That  may  be,  but  it's  negative  of  yourself,  and  not  a 
portrait  of  the  object.  Hasn't  she  the  brain  of  Socrates — or, 
better,  say  Minerva — on  the  bust  of  Venus,  and  the  remain- 
der of  her  finished  oif  to  an  exact  resemblance  of  her  patro- 
nymic goddess  of  the  bow  and  quiver?" 

"She  has  a  wise  head  and  is  beautiful." 

"And  chaste." 

Arthur  reddened:  he  was  prepared  to  maintain  it,  could 
not  speak  it. 

"She  is  to  us  in  this  London  what  the  run  of  water  was 
to  Theocritus  in  Sicily:  the  nearest  to  the  visibly  divine," 
he  said,  and  was  applauded. 

"Good,  and  on  you  go.  Top  me  a  few  superlatives  on 
that,  and  I'm  your  echo,  my  friend.  Isn't  the  seeing  and 
listening  to  her  like  sitting  under  the  silvery  canopy  of  a 
fountain  in  high  summer?" 

"All  the  comparisons  are  yours,"  Arthur  said  enviously. 

"Mr.  Rhodes,  you  are  a  poet,  I  beheve,  and  all  you  require 
to  loosen  your  tongue  is  a  drop  of  Bacchus,  so  if  you  will  do 
me  the  extreme  honor  to  dine  with  me  at  my  club  this 
evening  we'll  resume  the  toast  that  should  never  be  uttared 
dry.     You  reprove  me  justly,  my  friend." 

Arthur  laughed  and  accepted.  The  club  was  named,  and 
the  hour,  and  some  items  of  the  little  dinner:  the  birds  and 
the  year  of  the  wines. 

It  surprised  him  to  meet  m.  Redworth  at  the  table  of  his 


DIANiA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  333 

host.  A  greater  surprise  was  the  partial  thaw  in  Eedworth's 
bearing  toward  him.  But,  as  it  was  partial,  and  he  a  youth 
and  poor,  not  even  the  genial  influences  of  Bacchus  could 
lift  him  to  loosen  his  tongue  under  the  repressing  presence  of 
the  man  he  knew  to  be  his  censor,  though  Sullivan  Smith 
encouraged  him  with  praises  and  opportunities.  He  thought 
of  the  many  occasions  when  Mrs.  Warwick's  art  of  manage- 
ment had  produced  a  tacit  harmony  between  them.  She  had 
no  peer.  The  dinner  failed  of  the  pleasure  he  had  expected 
from  it.  Redworth's  bluntness  killed  the  flying  metaphors, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  entertainment  he  and  Sullivan  Smith 
were  drumming  upon  politics. 

"Fancies  he  has  the  key  of  the  Irish  difficulty!"  said  the 
latter,  clapping  hand  on  his  shoulder,  by  way  of  blessing,  as 
they  parted  at  the  club-steps. 

Redworth  asked  Arthur  Rhodes  the  way  he  was  going, 
and  walked  beside  him. 

"I  suppose  you  take  exercise:  don't  get  colds  and  that 
kind  of  thing,"  he  remarked  in  the  old  bullying  fashion:  and 
changed  it  abruptly.  "I  am  glad  to  have  met  you  this  even- 
ing. I  hope  you'll  dine  with  me  one  day  next  week.  Have 
you  seen  Mrs.  Warwick  lately?" 

"She  is  unwell;  she  has  been  working  too  hard,"  said 
Arthur. 

"Seriously  unwell,  do  you  mean?" 

"Lady  Dunstane  is  at  her  house,  and  speaks  of  her  recov- 
ering." 

"Ah!    You've  not  seen  her?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Well,  good-night." 

Redworth  left  him,  and  only  when  moved  by  gratitude  to 
the  lad  for  his  mention  of  Mrs.  Warwick's  "working  too  hard," 
as  the  cause  of  her  illness,  recollected  the  promised  dinner 
and  the  need  for  having  his  address. 

He  had  met  Sullivan  Smith  accidentally  in  the  morning 
and  accepted  the  invitation  to  meet  young  Rhodes,  because 
these  two,  of  all  men  living,  were  for  the  moment  dearest  to 
him,  as  Diana  W^arwick's  true  and  simple  champions;  and 
he  had  intended  a  perfect  cordiality  towards  them  both;  the 
end  being  a  semi-wrangle  with  the  patriot,  and  a  patronizing 
bluntness  with  the  boy;  who,  by  the  way,  would  hardly  think 
him  sincere  in  the  offer  of  a  seat  at  his  table.  He  owned  him- 


334  '        DIANA   OF    THE   CROSSWAYS. 

self  incomplete.  He  never  could  do  the  thing  he  meant,  in 
the  small  matters  not  leading  to  fortune.  But  they  led  to 
happiness!  Eedworth  was  guilty  of  a  sigh:  for  now  Diana 
Warwick  stood  free;  doubly  free,  he  was  reduced  to  reflect  in 
a  waving  dubiousness.  Her  more  than  inclination  for  Dacier, 
witnessed  by  him,  and  the  shot  of  the  world,  flying  randomly 
on  the  subject,  had  struck  this  cuirassier,  making  light  of  his 
armor,  without  causing  any  change  of  his  habitual  fresh  coun- 
tenance. As  for  the  scandal,  it  had  never  shaken  his  faith 
in  her  nature.  He  thought  of  the  passion.  His  heart  struck  at 
Diana's,  and  whatever  might  by  chance  be  true  in  the  scandal 
affected  him  little,  if  but  her  heart  were  at  liberty.  That 
was  the  prize  he  coveted,  having  long  read  the  nature  of  the 
woman  and  wedded  his  spirit  to  it.  She  would  complete  him. 
Of  course,  infatuated  men  argue  likewise,  and  scandal  does 
not  move  them.  At  a  glance,  the  lower  instincts  and  the 
higher  spirit  appear  equally  to  have  the  philosophy  of  over- 
looking blemishes.  The  difference  between  appetite  and  love 
is  shown  when  a  man,  after  years  of  service,  can  hear  and  see, 
and  admit  the  possible,  and  still  desire  in  worship;  knowing 
that  we  of  earth  are  begrimed  and  must  be  cleansed  for  pres- 
entation daily  on  our  passage  through  the  miry  ways,  but  that 
our  souls,  if  flame  of  a  soul  shall  have  come  of  the  agony  of 
flesh,  are  beyond  the  baser  mischances:  partaking  of  them 
indeed,  but  sublimely.  Now  Eedworfh  believed  in  the 
soul  of  Diana.  For  him  it  burned,  and  it  was  a  celestial  radi- 
ance about  her,  unquenched  by  her  shifting  fortunes,  her  wil- 
fullness,  and,  it  might  be,  errors.  She  was  a  woman  and  weak; 
that  is,  not  trained  for  strength.  She  was  a  soul;  therefore 
perpetually  pointing  to  growth  in  purification.  He  felt  it,  and 
even  discerned  it  of  her,  if  he  could  not  have  phrased  it.  The 
something  sovereignly  characteristic  that  aspired  in  Diana 
enchained  him.  With  her,  or,  rather,  with  his  thought  of  her 
soul,  he  understood  the  right  union  of  women  and  men,  from 
the  roots  to  the  flowering  heights  of  that  rare  graft.  She  gave 
him  comprehension  of  the  meaning  of  love:  a  word  in  many 
mouths,  not  of  ten  explained.  With  her,  wound  in  his  idea  of 
her,  he  perceived  it  to  signify  a  new  start  in  our  existence,  a 
finer  shoot  of  the  tree  stoutly  planted  in  good  gross  earth; 
the  senses  running  their  live  sap,  and  the  minds  companioned, 
and  the  spirits  made  one  by  the  whole-natured  conjunction. 
In  sooth,  a  happy  prospect  for  the  sons  and  daughters  of 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  335 

Earth,  divinely  indicating  more  than  happiness:  the  speed- 
ing of  "US,  compact  of  what  we  are,  between  the  ascetic  rocks 
and  the  sensual  whirlpools,  to  the  creation  of  certain  nobler 
races,  now  very  dimly  imagined. 

Singularly  enough,  the  man  of  these  feelings  was  far  from 
being  a  social  rebel.  His  Diana  conjured  them  forth  in  re- 
lation to  her,  but  was  not  on  his  bosom  to  enlighten  him  gen- 
erally. His  notions  of  citizenship  tolerated  the  female  Phari- 
sees, as  ladies  offering  us  an  excellent  social  concrete  where 
quicksands  abound;  and,  without  quite  justifying  the  Lady 
Wathins  and  Constance  Aspers  of  the  world,  whose  virtues 
he  could  set  down  to  accident  or  to  acid  blood,  he  considered 
them  supportable  and  estimable  where  the  Mrs.  Fryar-Gun- 
netts  were  innumerable,  threatening  to  become  a  majority; 
as  they  will  constantly  do  while  the  sisterhood  of  the  chaste 
are  wattled  in  formalism  and  throned  in  sourness. 

Thoughts  of  Diana  made  phantoms  of  the  reputable  and 
their  reverse  alike.  He  could  not  choose  but  think  of  her. 
She  was  free — and  he  too;  and  they  were  as  distant  as  the 
horizon  sail  and  the  raft-floating  castaway.  Her  passion  for 
Dacier  might  have  burnt  out  her  heart.  And  at  present  he 
had  no  claim  to  visit  her,  dared  not  intrude.  He  would  have 
nothing  to  say  if  he  went,  save  to  answer  questions  upon  points 
of  business:  as  to  which.  Lady  Dunstane  would  certainly  sum- 
mon him  when  he  was  wanted. 

Riding  in  the  Park  on  a  frosty  morning,  he  came  upon  Sir 
Lukin,  who  looked  gloomy  and  inquired  for  news  of  Diana 
Warwick,  saying  that  his  wife  had  forbidden  him  to  call  at 
her  house  just  yet.  "She's  got  a  cold,  you  know,"  said  Sir 
Lukin;  adding,  "confoundedly  hard  on  women! — eh? 
Obliged  to  keep  up  a  show.  And  Fd  swear,  by  all  that's 
holy,  Diana  Warwick  hasn't  a  spot,  not  a  spot,  to  reproach 
herself  with.  I  fancy  I  ought  to  know  women  by  this  time. 
And  look  here,  Eedworth,  last  night — that  is,  I  mean,  yester- 
day evening,  I  broke  with  a  woman — a  lady  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, you  know,  because  she  would  go  on  scandal-mongering 
about  Diana  Warwick.  I  broke  with  her.  I  told  her  I'd  have 
out  any  man  who  abused  Diana  Warwick,  and  I  broke  with 
her.  By  Jove!  Eedworth,  those  women  can  prove  spitfires. 
They've  bags  of  venom  under  their  tongues,  barley  sugar 
though  they  look — and  that's  her  color.    But  I  broke  with 


336  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

her  for  good.     I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  call  on  her  again.     And, 
in  point  of  fact,  I  won't." 

Mrs.  Fryar-Giinnett  was  described  in  the  coloring  of  the 
lady. 

Sir  Lukin,  after  some  further  remarks,  rode  on,  and  Red- 
worth  mused  on  a  moral  world  that  allows  a  woman  of  Mrs. 
Fryar-Gunnett's  like  to  hang  on  to  it,  and  to  cast  a  stone  at 
Diana;  forgetful,  in  his  championship,  that  Diana  was  not 
disallowed  a  similar  license,  and  was  only  more  forbearing  and 
less  obtuse. 

When  he  saw  Emma  Dunstane,  some  days  later,  she  was  in 
her  carriage,  driving,  as  she  said,  to  Lawyerland,  for  an  inter- 
view with  old  Mr.  Braddock,  on  her  friend's  affairs.  He  took 
a  seat  beside  her.  "No,  Tony  is  not  well,"  she  replied  to  his 
question,  under  the  veil  of  candor.  "She  is  recovering,  but 
she — you  can  understand — suffered  a  shock.  She  is  not  able 
to  attend  to  business,  and  certain  things  have  to  be  done." 

"I  used  to  be  her  man  of  business,"  Eedworth  observed. 

"She  speaks  of  your  kind  services.  This  is  mere  matter  for 
lawyers." 

"She  is  recovering?" 

"You  may  see  her  at  Copsley  next  week.  You  can  come 
down  on  Wednesdays  or  Saturdays?" 

"Any  day.  Tell  her  I  want  her  opinion  upon  the  state  of 
things." 

"It  will  please  her;  but  you  will  have  to  describe  the  state 
of  things." 

Emma  feared  she  had  said  too  much.  She  tried  candor 
again  for  concealment.  "My  poor  Tony  has  been  struck 
down  low.  I  suppose  it  is  like  losing  a  diseased  limb — she 
has  her  freedom  at  the  cost  of  a  blow  to  the  system." 

"She  may  be  trusted  for  having  strength,"  said  Eedworth. 

"Yes."  Emma's  mild  monosyllable  was  presently  followed 
by  an  exclamation:  "One  has  to  experience  the  irony  of  Fate 
to  comprehend  how  cruel  it  is!"  Then  she  remembered  that 
such  language  was  peculiarly  abhorrent  to  him. 

"Irony  of  Fate!"  he  echoed  her.  "I  thought  you  were 
above  that  literary  jargon." 

^  "And  I  thought  I  was:  or  thought  it  could  be  put  in  a 
dialect  practically  explicable,"  she  answered,  smiling  at  the 
lion  roused. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  burst  out,  "I  should  like  to  write  a 


DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS.  337 

Book  of  Fables,  showing  how  donkeys  get  into  grinding  har- 
ness, and  dogs  lose  their  bones,  and  fools  have  their  sconces 
cracked,  and  all  run  jabbering  of  the  irony  of  fate,  to  escape 
the  annoyance  of  tracing  the  causes.  And  what  are  they? 
Nine  times  out  of  ten,  plain  want  of  patience  or  some  debt  for 
indulgence.  There's  a  subject.  Let  some  one  write,  Fables 
in  Illustration  of  the  Irony  of  Fate,  and  I'll  undertake  to  tack 
on  my  grandmother's  maxims  for  a  moral  to  each  of  'em. 
We  prate  of  that  irony  when  we  slink  away  from  the  lesson — 
the  rod  we  conjure.  And  you  to  talk  of  Fate!  It's  the  seed 
we  sow,  individually  or  collectively.  I'm  bound  up  in  the 
prosperity  of  the  country,  and  if  the  ship  is  wrecked  it  ruins 
my  fortune,  but  not  me,  unless  I'm  bound  up  in  myself.  At 
least  I  hope  that's  my  case." 

He  apologized  for  intruding  Mr.  Thomas  Eedworth. 

His  hearer  looked  at  him,  thinking  he  required  a  more 
finely  pointed  gift  of  speech  for  the  ironical  tongue,  but 
relishing  the  tonic  directness  of  his  faculty  of  reason  while 
she  considered  that  the  application  of  the  phrase  might  be 
brought  home  to  him  so  as  to  render  "my  grandmother's 
moral"  a  conclusion  less  comfortingly,  if  quite  intelligibly, 
summary.  And  then  she  thought  of  Tony's  piteous  instance; 
and,  thinking  with  her  heart,  the  tears  insisted  on  that  bitter 
irony  of  the  heavens,  which  bestowed  the  long-withheld  and 
coveted  boon  when  it  was  empty  of  value  or  was  but  as  a 
handful  of  spices  to  a  shroud. 

Perceiving  the  moisture  in  her  look,  Eedworth  understood 
that  it  was  foolish  to  talk  rationally.  But  on  her  return  to 
her  beloved  the  real  quality  of  the  man  had  overcome  her 
opposing  state  of  sentiment,  and  she  spoke  of  him  with  an 
iteration  and  throb  in  the  voice  that  set  a  singular  querj'' 
whirring  round  Diana's  ears.  Her  senses  were  too  heavy  for 
a  suspicion. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
CONVALESCENCE  OF  A  HEALTHY  MIND  DISTRAUGHT. 

From  an  abandonment  that  had  the  last  pleasure  of  life  in 
a  willingness  to  yield  it  up,  Diana  rose  with  her  friend's  help 
in  some  state  of  fortitude,  resembling  the  effort  of  her  feet 

22 


338  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

to  bear  the  weight  of  her  body.  She  plucked  her  courage 
out  of  the  dust  to  which  her  heart  had  been  scattered,  and 
tasked  herself  to  walk  as  the  world  does.  But  she  was  indis- 
posed to  compassionate  herself  in  the  manner  of  the  burdened 
world.  She  lashed  the  creature  who  could  not  raise  a  head 
like  others,  and  made  the  endurance  of  torture  a  support,  such 
as  the  pride  of  being  is  to  men.  She  would  not  have  seen 
any  similarity  to  pride  in  it — would  have  deemed  it  the  re- 
verse. It  was,  in  fact,  the  painful  gathering  of  the  atoms 
composing  pride.  For  she  had  not  only  suffered — she  had 
done  wrongly:  and,  when  that  was  acknowledged,  by  the 
light  of  her  sufferings  the  wrong-doing  appeared  gigantic, 
chorusing  eulogies  of  the  man  she  had  thought  her  lover: 
and  who  was  her  lover  once,  before  the  crime  against  him. 
In  the  opening  of  her  bosom  to  Emma  he  was  painted  a  noble 
figure,  one  of  those  that  Eomance  delights  to  harass  for  the 
sake  of  ultimately  the  more  exquisitely  rewarding.  He  hated 
treachery:  she  had  been  guilty  of  doing  what  he  most  hated. 
She  glorified  him  for  the  incapacity  to  forgive;  it  was  to  her 
mind  godlike.     And  her  excuses  of  herself  ? 

At  the  first  confession  she  said  she  had  none,  and  sullenly 
maintained  that  there  was  none  to  exonerate.  Little  by  little 
her  story  was  related — ^her  version  of  the  story:  for  not  even 
as  woman  to  woman,  friend  to  great-hearted  friend,  pure  soul 
to  soul,  could  Diana  tell  of  the  state  of  shivering  abjection  in 
which  Dacier  had  left  her  on  the  fatal  night;  of  the  many 
causes  conducing  to  it,  and  of  the  chief.  That  was  an  un- 
utterable secret,  bound  by  all  the  laws  of  feminine  civilization 
not  to  be  betrayed.  Her  excessive  self-abasement  and  ex- 
altation of  him  who  had  struck  her  down  rendered  it  difficult 
to  be  understood;  and  not  till  Emma  had  revolved  it  and  let 
it  ripen  in  the  mind  some  days  could  she  perceive  with  any 
clearness  her  Tony's  motives  or  mania.  The  very  word 
Money  thickened  the  riddle;  for  Tony  knew  that  her  friend's 
purse  was  her  own  to  dip  in  at  her  pleasure;  yet  she,  to  escape 
so  small  an  obligation,  had  committed  the  enormity  for  which 
she  held  the  man  blameless  in  spurning  her. 

"You  see  what  I  am,  Emmy,"  Diana  said. 

'^hat  I  do  not  see  is,  that  he  had  grounds  for  striking  so 
cruelly.'^ 

"I  proved  myself  unworthy  of  him.'' 

But  does  a  man  pretending  to  love  a  woman  cut  at  one 


DIANA   OF   THE)    CROSSWAYS.  S39 

blow,  for  such  a  cause,  the  ties  uniting  her  to  him?  Un- 
worthiness  of  that  kind  is  not  commonly  the  capital  offense 
in  love.  Tony's  deep  prostration  and  her  resplendent  picture 
of  her  judge  and  executioner  kept  Emma  questioning  within 
herself.  Gradually  she  became  enlightened  enough  to  dis- 
tinguish in  the  man  a  known,  if  not  common  type,  of  the  ex- 
ternally soft  and  polished,  internally  hard  and  relentless,  who 
are  equal  to  the  trials  of  love  only  as  long  as  favoring  circum- 
stances and  seemings  nurse  the  fair  object  of  their  courtship. 

Her  thoughts  recurred  to  the  madness  driving  Tony  to  be- 
tray the  secret;  and  the  ascent,  unhelped,  to  get  a  survey  of 
it  and  her  and  the  conditions  was  mountainous.  She  toiled 
up  but  to  enter  the  regions  of  cloud — sure  nevertheless  that 
the  obscurity  was  penetrable  and  excuses  to  be  discovered 
somewhere.  Having  never  wanted  money  herself,  she  was 
unable  perfectly  to  realize  the  urgency  of  the  need:  she  be- 
gan, however,  to  comprehend  that  the  very  eminent  gentle- 
man, before  whom  all  human  creatures  were  to  bow  in  humil- 
ity, had  for  an  extended  term  considerably  added  to  the  ex- 
penses of  Tony's  household,  by  inciting  her  to  give  those  little 
dinners  to  his  political  supporters,  and  bringing  comrades 
perpetually  to  supper  parties,  careless  of  how  it  might  affect 
her  character  and  her  purse.  Surely  an  honorable  man  was 
bound  to  her  in  honor?  Tony's  remark,  "I  have  the  reptile 
in  me,  dear," — her  exaggeration  of  the  act  in  her  resigned 
despair, — was  surely  no  justification  for  his  breaking  from 
her — even  though  he  had  discovered  a  vestige  of  the  common 
"reptile" — to  leave  her  with  a  stain  on  her  name?  There 
would  not  have  been  a  question  about  it  if  Tony  had  not  ex- 
alted him  so  loftily,  refusing,  in  visible  pain,  to  hear  him 
blamed. 

Danvers  had  dressed  a  bed  for  Lady  Dunstane  in  her  mis- 
tress's chamber,  where  often  during  the  night  Emma  caught 
a  sound  of  stifled  weeping  or  the  long  falling  breath  of  wake- 
ful grief.  One  night  she  asked  whether  Tony  would  like  to 
have  her  by  her  side. 

"No,  dear,"  was  the  answer  in  the  dark;  "but  you  know  my 
old  pensioners,  the  bhnd  fifer  and  his  wife;  I've  been  think- 
ing of  them." 

"They  were  paid  as  they  passed  down  the  street  yesterday, 
my  love." 

"Yes,  dear,  I  hope  so.     But  he  flourishes  his  tune  so  ab- 


340  DIANA    OP    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

surdly.  I've  been  thinking  that  is  the  part  I  have  played, 
instead  of  doing  the  female's  duty  of  handing  round  the  tin 
cup  for  pennies.     I  won't  cry  any  more." 

She  sighed  and  turned  to  sleep,  leaving  Emma  to  disburden 
her  heart  in  tears. 

For  it  seemed  to  her  that  Tony's  intellect  was  weakened. 
She  not  merely  abased  herself  and  exalted  Dacier  preposter- 
ously, she  had  sunk  her  intelligence  in  her  sensations:  a  state 
th^t  she  used  to  decry  as  the  sin  of  mankind,  the  origin  of 
error  and  blood. 

Strangely,  too,  the  proposal  came  from  her,  or  the  sugges- 
tion of  it,  notwithstanding  her  subjeetedness  to  the  nerves, 
that  she  should  show  her  face  in  public.  She  said,  "I  shall 
have  to  run  about,  Emmy,  when  I  can  fancy  I  am  able  to  rattle 
up  to  the  old  mark.  At  present  I  feel  like  a  wrestler  who 
has  had  a  fall.  As  soon  as  the  stiifness  is  over  it's  best  to 
make  an  appearance,  for  the  sake  of  one's  backers,  though  I 
shall  never  be  in  the  wrestling-ring  again." 

"That  is  a  good  decision — ^when  you  feel  quite  yourself, 
dear  Tony,"  Emma  replied. 

"I  dare  say  I  have  disgraced  my  sex,  but  not  as  they  sup- 
pose. I  feel  my  new  self  already,  and  can  make  the  poor  brute 
go  through  fire  on  behalf  of  the  old.  What  is  the  task? — 
merely  to  drive  a  face!" 

"It  is  not  known." 

"It  will  be  known." 

"But  this  is  a  sealed  secret." 

"Nothing  is  a  secret  that  has  been  spoken.  It's  in  the  air, 
and  I  have  to  breathe  to  live  by  it.  And  I  would  rather 
it  were  out.  'She  betrayed  him.'  Eather  that,  than  have 
them  think — anything!  They  will  exclaim,  How  could  she! 
I  have  been  unable  to  answer  it  to  you — ^my  own  heart.  How? 
Oh!  our  weakness  is  the  swiftest  dog  to  hunt  us;  we  cannot 
escape  it.  But  I  have  the  answer  for  them,  that  I  trust  with 
my  whole  soul  none  of  them  would  have  done  the  like." 

"None,  my  Tony,  would  have  taken  it  to  the  soul  as  you 
do." 

'1  talk,  dear.  If  I  took  it  honestly  I  should  be  dumb,  soon 
dust.^  The  moment  we  begin  to  speak,  the  guilty  creature  is 
running  for  cover.  She  could  not  otherwise  exist.  I  am 
sensible  of  evasion  when  I  open  my  lips." 

"But  Tony  has  told  me  all." 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  341 

"I  think  I  have.  But  if  you  excuse  my  conduct  I  am  cer- 
tain I  have  not." 

"Dear  girl,  accounting  for  it  is  not  the  same  as  excusing." 

"Who  can  account  for  it?  I  was  caught  in  a  whirl! — Oh! 
nothing  supernatural:  my  weakness;  which  it  pleases  me  to 
call  a  madness — shift  the  ninety-ninth!  When  I  drove  down 
that  night  to  Mr.  Tonans  I  am  certain  I  had  my  clear  wits, 
but  I  felt  like  a  bolt.  I  saw  things,  but  at  too  swift  a  rate  for 
the  conscience  of  them.  Ah!  let  never  Necessity  draw*the 
bow  of  our  weakness:  it  is  the  soul  that  is  winged  to  its  per- 
dition. I  remember  I  was  writing  a  story,  named  'The  Man 
of  Two  Minds.'  I  shall  sign  it.  By  the  Woman  of  Two  Na- 
tures— if  ever  it  is  finished.  Capacity  for  thinking  should 
precede  the  act  of  writing.  It  should;  I  do  not  say  that  it 
does.  Capacity  for  assimilating  the  public  taste  and  reproduc- 
ing it  is  the  commonest.  The  stuff  is  perishable,  but  it  pays 
us  for  our  labor,  and  in  so  doing  saves  us  from  becoming 
tricksters.  Now  I  can  see  that  Mr.  Eedworth  had  it  in  that 
big  head  of  his — the  authoress  outliving  her  income!" 

"He  dared  not  speak." 

"Why  did  he  not  dare?" 

"Would  it  have  checked  you?" 

"I  was  a  shot  out  of  a  gun,  and  I  am  glad  he  did  not  stand 
in  my  way.  What  power  charged  the  gun  is  another  ques- 
tion. Dada  used  to  say  that  it  is  the  devil's  masterstroke  to 
get  us  to  accuse  him.  'So  fare  ye  well,  old  Mckie  Ben.'  ^ly 
dear,  I  am  a  black  sheep;  a  creature  with  a  spotted  reputation; 
I  must  wash  and  wash;  and  not  with  water — ^with  sulphur- 
flames."  She  sighed.  "I  am  down  there  where  they  bum. 
You  should  have  let  me  lie  and  die.  You  were  not  kind.  I 
was  going  quietly." 

"My  love!"  cried  Emma,  overborne  by  a  despair  that  she 
traced  to  the  woman's  concealment  of  her  bleeding  heart, — 
"you  live  for  me.  Do  set  your  mind  on  that.  Think  of  what 
you  are  bearing,  as  your  debt  to  Emma.     Will  you?" 

Tony  bowed  her  head  mechanically. 

"But  I  am  in  love  with  King  Death,  and  must  confess  it," 
she  said.  "That  hideous  eating  you  forced  on  me  snatched 
me  from  him.  And  I  feel  that  if  I  had  gone  I  should  have 
been  mercifully  forgiven  by  everybody." 

"Except  by  me,"  said  Emma,  embracing  her.     "Tony  would 


342  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

have  left  her  friend  for  her  last  voyage  in  mourning.  And 
my  dearest  will  live  to  know  happiness/' 

"I  have  no  more  belief  in  it,  Emmy." 

"The  mistake  of  the  world  is  to  think  happiness  possible  to 
the  senses." 

"Yes;  we  distill  that  fine  essence  through  the  senses;  and 
the  act  is  called  the  pain  of  life.  It  is  the  death  of  them. 
So  much  I  understand  of  what  our  existence  must  be.  But  I 
may  grieve  for  having  done  so  little." 

"That  is  the  sound  grief,  with  hope  at  the  core — not  in  love 
with  itself  and  wretchedly  mortal,  as  we  find  self  is  under 
every  shape  it  takes;  especially  the  chief  one." 

"Name  it." 

"It  is  best  named  Amor." 

There  was  a  writhing  in  the  frame  of  the  hearer,  for  she  did 
want  Love  to  be  respected — not  shadowed  by  her  misfortune. 
Her  still  fiushed  senses  protested  on  behalf  of  the  eternalness 
of  the  passion,  and  she  was  obliged  to  think  Emma's  cold  con- 
demnatory mtellect  came  of  the  no  knowledge  of  it. 

A  letter  from  Mr.  Tonans,  containing  an  inclosure,  was  a 
sharp  trial  of  Diana's  endurance  of  the  irony  of  fate.  She 
had  spoken  of  the  irony  in  allusion  to  her  freedom.  Now 
that,  according  to  a  communication  from  her  lawyers,  she 
was  independent  of  the  task  of  writing,  the  letter  which  paid 
the  price  of  her  misery  bruised  her  heavily. 

"Read  it  and  tear  it  all  to  strips,"  she  said,  in  an  abhor- 
rence to  Emma,  who  rejoined,  "Shall  I  go  at  once  and  see 
him?" 

"Can  it  serve  any  end?  But  throw  it  into  the  fire.  Oh! 
no  simulation  of  virtue.  There  was  not,  I  think,  a  stipulated 
return  for  what  I  did.  But  I  perceive  clearly — I  can  read 
only  by  events — that  there  was  an  understanding.  You  be- 
hold it.  I  went  to  him  to  sell  it.  He  thanks  me,  says  I  served 
the  good  cause  well.  I  have  not  that  consolation.  If  I  had 
thought  of  the  cause — of  anything  high — ^it  would  have  ar- 
rested me.     On  the  fire  with  it!" 

The  letter  and  square  slip  were  consumed.  Diana  watched 
the  blackening  papers. 

"So  they  cease  their  sinning,  Emmy;  and,  as  long  as  I  am 
in  torment,  I  may  hope  for  grace.  We  talked  of  the  irony. 
It  means,  the  pain  of  fire." 


DIAN<A   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  343 

"I  spoke  of  the  irony  to  Eedworth,"  said  Emma;  "inci- 
dentally, of  course." 

"And  he  fumed?" 

"He  is  really  not  altogether  the  Mr.  Cuthbert  Bering  of 
your  caricature.  He  is  never  less  than  acceptably  rational. 
I  won't  repeat  his  truisms;  but  he  said,  or  I  deduced  from 
what  he  said,  that  a  grandmother's  maxims  would  expound 
the  enigma." 

"Probably  the  simple  is  the  deep,  in  relation  to  the  mys- 
teries of  life,"  said  Diana,  whose  wits  had  been  pricked  to  a 
momentary  activity  by  the  letter.  "He  behaves  wisely;  so 
perhaps  we  are  bound  to  take  his  words  for  wisdom.  Much 
nonsense  is  talked  and  written,  and  he  is  one  of  the  world's 
reserves,  who  need  no  more  than  enrolling  to  make  a  sturdy 
phalanx  of  common  sense.  It's  a  pity  they  are  not  enlisted 
and  drilled  to  express  themselves."  She  relapsed.  "But 
neither  he  nor  any  of  them  could  understand  my  case!" 

"He  puts  the  idea  of  an  irony  down  to  the  guilt  of  im- 
patience, Tony." 

"Could  there  be  a  keener  irony  than  that?  A  friend  of 
dada's  waited  patiently  for  a  small  fortune,  and  when  it  ar- 
rived he  was  a  worn-out  man — just  assisted  to  go  decently  to 
his  grave." 

"But  he  may  have  gained  in  spirit  by  his  patient  waiting." 

"Oh!  true.  We  arc  warmer  if  we  travel  on  foot  sunward, 
but  it  is  a  discovery  that  we  are  colder  if  we  take  to  ballooning 
upward-  The  material  good  reverses  its  benefits  the  more 
nearly  we  clasp  it.  All  life  is  a  lesson  that  we  live  to  enjoy 
but  in  the  spirit.     I  will  brood  on  your  saying." 

"It  is  your  own  saying,  silly  Tony,  as  the  only  things  worth 
saying  always  are!"  exclaimed  Emma,  as  she  smiled  happily  to 
see  her  friend's  mind  reviving,  though  it  was  faintly  and  in  the 
dark. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIX. 

OF  NATURE  WITH  ONE  OF  HER  CULTIVATED  DAUGH- 
TERS AND  A  SHORT  EXCURSION  IN  ANTI-CLIMAX. 

A  mind  that  after  a  long  season  of  oblivion  in  pain  returns 
to  wakefulness  without  a  keen  edge  for  the  world  is  much  in 


344  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

danger  of  souring  permanently.  Diana's  love  of  nature  saved 
her  from  the  dire  mischance  during  a  two  months'  residence 
at  Copsley,  by  stupefying  her  senses  to  a  state  like  the  barely 
conscious  breathing  on  the  verge  of  sleep.  February  blew 
southwest  for  the  pairing  of  the  birds.  A  broad  warm  wind 
rolled  clouds  of  every  ambiguity  of  form  in  magnitude  over 
peeping  azure,  or  skimming  upon  lakes  of  blue  and  lightest 
green,  or  piling  the  amphitheater  for  majestic  sunset.  Or 
sometimes  those  daughters  of  the  wind  flew  linked  and  low, 
semi-purple,  threatening  the  shower  they  retained  and  teach- 
ing gloom  to  rouse  a  songful  nest  in  the  bosom  of  the  viewer. 
Sometimes  they  were  April,  variable  to  soar  with  rain-skirts 
and  sink  with  sun-shafts.  Or  they  drenched  wood  and  field 
for  a  day  and  opened  on  the  high  southwestern  star.  Daugh- 
ters of  the  wind,  but  shifty  daughters  of  this  wind  of  the 
dropping  sun,  they  have  to  be  watched  to  be  loved  in  their 
transformations. 

Diana  had  Arthur  Ehodes  and  her  faithful  Leander  for 
walking  companions.  If  Arthur  said,  "Such  a  day  would  be 
considered  melancholy  by  London  people,"  she  thanked  him 
in  her  heart,  as  a  benefactor  who  had  revealed  to  her  things 
of  the  deepest.  The  simplest  were  her  food.  Thus  does 
Nature  restore  us,  by  drugging  the  brain  and  making  her 
creature  confidingly  animal  for  its  new  growth.  She  im- 
agined herself  to  have  lost  the  power  to  think;  certainly  she 
had  not  the  striving  or  the  wish.  Exercise  of  her  limbs  to 
reach  a  point  of  prospect,  and  of  her  ears  and  eyes  to  note  what 
bird  had  piped,  what  flower  was  out  on  the  banks,  and  the 
leaf  of  what  tree  it  was  that  lay  beneath  the  budding,  satiated 
her  daily  desires.  She  gathered  unknowingly  a  sheaf  of  land- 
scapes, images,  keys  of  dreamed  horizons,  that  opened  a  world 
to  her  at  any  chance  breath  altering  shape  or  hue — a  different 
world  from  the  one  of  her  old  ambition.  Her  fall  had  brought 
her  renovatingly  to  earth,  and  the  saving  naturalness  of  the 
woman  re-created  her  childlike,  with  shrouded  recollections 
of  her  strange  taste  of  life  behind  her;  with  a  tempered  fresh 
blood  to  enjoy  aimlessly,  and  what  would  erewhile  have  been 
a  barrenness  to  her  sensibilities. 

In  time  the  craving  was  evolved  for  positive  knowledge, 
and  shells  and  stones  and  weeds  were  deposited  on  the  library 
table  at  Copsley,  botanical  and  geological  books  comparingly 
examined,  Emma  Dunstane  always  eager  to  assist;    for  the 


DIANA   OP    THE    CROSSWAYS,  345 

samples  wafted  her  into  the  heart  of  the  woods.  Poor  Sir 
Lukin  tried  three  da3^s  of  their  society,  and  was  driven  away 
headlong  to  club-life.  He  sent  down  Redworth,  with  whom 
the  walks  of  the  zealous  inquirers  were  profitable,  though 
Diana,  in  acknowledging  it  to  herself,  reserved  a  decided 
preference  for  her  foregone  ethereal  mood,  larger,  and  un- 
troubled by  the  presence  of  a  man.  The  suspicion  Emma  had 
sown  was  not  excited  to  an  alarming  activity;  but  she  began 
to  question:  Could  the  best  of  men  be  simply  a  woman's 
friend? — Was  not  long  service  rather  less  than  a  proof  of 
friendship?  She  could  be  blind  when  her  heart  was  on  fire 
for  another.  Her  passion  for  her  liberty,  however,  received 
no  ominous  warning  to  look  to  the  defenses.  He  was  the 
same  blunt  speaker,  and  knotted  his  brows  as  queerly  as  ever 
at  Arthur,  in  a  transparent  calculation  of  how  this  fellow 
meant  to  gain  his  livelihood.  She  wilfully  put  it  to  the  credit 
of  Arthur's  tact  that  his  elder  was  amiable,  without  denying 
her  debt  to  the  good  man  for  leaving  her  illness  and  her 
appearance  unmentioned.  He  forebore  even  to  scan  her 
features.  Diana's  wan  contemplativeness,  in  which  the  spar- 
kle of  meaning  slowly  rose  to  flash,  as  we  see  a  bubble  rising 
from  the  deeps  of  crystal  waters,  caught  at  his  heart  while  he 
talked  his  matter-of-fact.  But  her  instinct  of  a  present  safety 
was  true.  She  and  Arthur  discovered — and  it  set  her  first 
meditating  whether  she  did  know  the  man  so  very  accurately — 
that  he  had  printed,  for  private  circulation,  when  at  Harrow 
School,  a  little  book,  a  record  of  his  observations  in  nature. 
Lady  Dunstane  was  the  casual  betrayer.  He  shrugged  at  the 
nonsense  of  a  boy's  publishing;  anybody's  publishing  he  held 
for  a  doubtful  proof  of  sanity.  His  excuse  was,  that  he  had 
not  published  opinions.  Let  us  observe,  and  assist  in  our 
small  sphere;  not  come  mouthing  to  the  footlights! 

"We  retire,"  Diana  said,  for  herself  and  Arthur. 

"The  wise  thing  is  to  avoid  the  position  that  enforces  pub- 
lishing," said  he,  to  the  discomposure  of  his  raw  junior. 

In  the  fields  he  was  genially  helpful;  commending  them  to 
the  study  of  the  southwest  wind  if  they  wanted  to  forecast 
the  weather  and  understand  the  climate  of  our  country.  "We 
have  no  seasons,  or  only  a  shuffle  of  them.  Old  calendars 
give  seven  months  of  the  year  to  the  southwest,  and  that's 
about  the  average.  Count  on  it,  you  may  generally  reckon 
what  to  expect.     When  you  don't  have  the  excess  for  a  year 


346  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

or  two  you  are  drenched  the  year  following."  He  knew  every 
bird  by  its  flight  and  its  pipe,  habits,  tricks,  hints  of  sagacity 
homely  with  the  original  human:  and  his  remarks  on  the 
sensitive  life  of  trees  and  herbs  were  a  spell  to  his  thirsty  hear- 
ers. Something  of  astronomy  he  knew;  but  in  relation  to 
that  science  he  sank  his  voice  touchingly  to  Diana,  who  felt 
drawn  to  kinship  with  him  when  he  had  a  pupil's  tone.  An 
allusion  by  Arthur  to  the  poetical  work  of  Aratus  led  to  a 
memorably  pleasant  evening's  discourse  upon  the  long  reading 
of  the  stars  by  these  our  mortal  eyes.  Altogether  the  mind 
of  the  practical  man  became  distinguishable  to  them  as  that  of 
a  plain  brother  of  the  poetic.  Diana  said  of  him  to  Arthur, 
"He  does  not  supply  me  with  similes;  he  points  to  the  source 
of  them."  Arthur,  with  envy  of  the  man  of  positive  knowl- 
edge, disguised  an  unstrung  heart  in  agreeing. 

Eedworth  alluded  passingly  to  the  condition  of  public  af- 
fairs. Neither  of  them  replied.  Diana  was  wondering  how 
one  who  perused  the  eternal  of  nature  should  lend  a  thought 
to  the  dusty  temporary  of  the  world.  Subsequently  she  re- 
flected that  she  was  asking  him  to  confine  his  great  male  appe- 
tite to  the  nibble  of  bread  which  nourished  her  immediate 
sense  of  life.  Her  reflections  were  thin  as  mist,  coming  and 
going  like  the  mist,  with  no  direction  upon  her  brain,  if  they 
sprang  from  it.  When  he  had  gone,  welcome  though  Arthur 
had  seen  him  to  be,  she  rebounded  to  a  broader  and  cheerf  uller 
liveliness.  Arthur  was  flattered  by  an  idea  of  her  casting  off 
incubus — a  most  worthy  gentleman,  and  a  not  perfectly  sym- 
pathetic associate.  Her  eyes  had  their  lost  sight  in  them,  her 
step  was  brisker;  she  challenged  him  to  former  games  of  con- 
versation, excursions  in  blank  verse  here  and  there,  as  the 
mood  dictated.  They  amused  themselves  and  Emma  too. 
She  reveled  in  seeing  Tony's  younger  face  and  hearing  some 
of  her  natural  outbursts.  That  Dacier  never  could  have  been 
the  man  for  her  would  have  compressed  and  subjected  her, 
and  inflicted  a  further  taste  of  bondage  in  marriage,  she  was 
assured.  She  hoped  for  the  day  when  Tony  would  know  it, 
and  haply  that  another,  whom  she  little  comprehended,  was 
her  rightful  mate. 

March  continued  southwesterly  and  grew  rainier,  as  Eed- 
worth had  foretold,  bidding  them  look  for  gales  and  storm, 
and  then  the  change  of  wind.  It  came,  after  wettings  of  a 
couple  scorning  the  refuge  of  dajnty  townsfolk  under  um- 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  347 

brellas,  and  proud  of  their  likeness  to  dripping  wayside  wild- 
flowers.  Arthur  stayed  at  Copsley  for  a  week  of  the  crisp 
northeaster;  and  what  was  it,  when  he  had  taken  his  leave, 
that  brought  Tony  home  from  her  solitary  walk  in  dejection? 
It  could  not  be  her  seriously  regretting  the  absence  of  the 
youthful  companion  she  had  parted  with  gajdy,  appointing  a 
time  for  another  meeting  on  the  heights,  and  recommending 
him  to  repair  idle  hours  with  strenuous  work.  The  fit  passed 
and  was  not  explained.  The  winds  are  sharp  with  memory. 
The  hard  shrill  wind  crowed  to  her  senses  of  an  hour  on  the 
bleak  sands  of  the  French  coast:  the  beginning  of  the  cur- 
tained misery,  inscribed  as  her  happiness.  She  was  next  day 
prepared  for  her  term  in  London  with  Emma,  who  promised 
her  to  make  an  expedition  at  the  end  of  it  by  way  of  holiday, 
to  see  The  Crossways,  which  Mr.  Redworth  said  was  not 
tenanted. 

"You  won't  go  through  it  like  a  captive,"  said  Emma. 

'^1  don't  like  it,  dear" — Diana  put  up  a  comic  mouth.  "The 
debts  we  owe  ourselves  are  the  hardest  to  pay.  That  is  the 
discovery  of  advancing  age:  and  I  used  to  imagine  it  was  quite 
the  other  way.  But  they  are  the  debts  of  honor — imperative. 
I  shall  go  through  it  grandly,  you  will  see.  If  I  am  stopped 
at  my  first  recreancy  and  turned  directly  the  contrary  way,  I 
think  I  have  courage." 

"You  will  not  fear  to  meet  .  .  .  any  one?"  Emma  said. 

"The  world  and  all  it  contains!  I  am  robust,  eager  for  the 
fray,  an  Amazon,  a  brazen-faced  hussy.  Fear  and  I  have 
parted.  I  shall  not  do  you  discredit.  Besides,  you  intend  to 
have  me  back  here  with  you?  And  besides  again,  I  burn  to 
make  a  last  brave  appearance.  I  have  not  outraged  the  world, 
dear  Emmy,  whatever  certain  creatures  in  it  may  fancy." 

She  had  come  out  of  her  dejectedness  with  a  shrewder  view 
of  Dacier;  equally  painful,  for  it  killed  her  romance,  and 
changed  the  garden  of  their  companionship  in  imagination  to 
a  waste.  Her  clearing  intellect  prompted  it,  whilst  her  nature 
protested,  and  reviled  her  to  uplift  him.  He  7iad  loved  her. 
"I  shall  die  knowing  that  a  man  did  love  me  once,"  she  said 
to  her  widowed  heart,  and  set  herself  blushing  and  blanching. 
But  the  thought  grew  inveterate:  "He  could  not  bear  much." 
And  in  her  quick  brain  it  shot  up  a  crop  of  similitudes  for  the 
quality  of  that  man's  love.  She  shuddered,  as  at  a  swift 
cleaving  of  cold  steel.    He  had  not  given  her  a  chance;   h^ 


348  DIANA    OP    THE    CROSSWtAYS. 

had  not  replied  to  her  letter  written  with  the  pen  dipped  in 
her  heart's  blood;  he  mnst  have  gone  straight  away  to  the  wom- 
an he  married.  This  after  almost  justifying  the  scandalous 
world: — after  .  .  .  She  realized  her  sensations  of  that  night 
when  the  house  door  had  closed  ©n  him;  her  feeling  of  lost 
sovereignty,  degradation,  feminine  danger,  friendlessness:  and 
she  was  unaware,  and  never  knew,  nor  did  the  world  ever 
know,  what  cunning  had  inspired  the  frosty  Cupid  to  return 
to  her  and  he  warmed  by  striking  a  bargain  for  his  weighty 
secret.  She  knew  too  well  that  she  was  not  of  the  snows 
which  do  not  melt,  however  high  her  conceit  of  herself  might 
place  her.  Happily  she  now  stood  out  of  the  sun,  in  a  bracing 
temperature.  Polar;  and  her  compassion  for  women  was  deep- 
ly sisterly  in  tenderness  and  understanding.  She  spoke  of  it 
to  Emma  as  her  gain. 

"I  have  not  seen  that  you  required  to  suffer  to  be  consider- 
ate," Emma  said. 

"It  is  on  my  conscience  that  I  neglected  Mary  Paynham, 
among  others — and  because  you  did  not  take  to  her,  Emmy." 

"The  reading  of  it  appears  to  me  that  she  has  neglected 
you." 

"She  was  not  in  my  confidence,  and  so  I  construe  it  as 
delicacy.     One  never  loses  by  believing  the  best." 

"If  one  is  not  duped." 

"Expectations  dupe  us,  not  trust.  The  light  of  every  soul 
burns  upward.  Of  course,  most  of  them  are  candles  in  the 
wind.  Let  us  allow  for  atmospheric  disturbance.  Xow  I 
thank  you,  dear,  for  bringing  me  back  to  life.  I  see  that  I 
was  really  a  selfish  suicide,  because  I  feel  I  have  power  to  do 
some  good,  and  belong  to  the  army.  When  we  are  beginning 
to  reflect,  as  I  do  now,  on  a  recovered  basis  of  pure  health,  we 
have  the  world  at  the  dawn  and  know  we  are  young  in  it,  with 
great  riches,  great  things  gained  and  greater  to  achieve.  Per- 
sonally I  behold  a  queer  little  wriggling  worm  for  myself; 
but  as  one  of  the  active  world  I  stand  high  and  shapely;  and 
the  very  thought  of  doing  work  is  like  a  draught  of  the  desert- 
springs  to  me — instead  of  which  I  have  once  more  to  go  about 
presenting  my  face  to  vindicate  my  character.  Mr.  Eed worth 
would  admit  no  irony  in  that!  At  all  events,  it  is  anti- 
climax." 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Tony,  you  have  been  proposed  for," 
said  Emma;  and  there  was  a  rush  of  savage  color  over  Tony's 
cheeks. 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  349 

Her  apparent  apprehensions  were  reKeved  by  hearing  the 
name  of  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith. 

"My  poor  dear  countryman!  And  he  thought  me  worthy, 
did  he?  Some  day,  when  we  are  past  his  repeating  it,  I'll 
thank  him." 

The  fact  of  her  smiling  happily  at  the  narration  of  Sullivan 
Smith's  absurd  proposal  by  mediatrix  proved  to  Emma  how 
much  her  nature  thirsted  for  the  smallest  support  in  her  self- 
esteem. 

The  second  campaign  of  London  was  of  bad  augury  at  the 
commencement,  owing  to  the  ridiculous  intervention  of  a 
street-organ,  that  ground  its  pipes  in  a  sprawling  roar  of  one 
of  the  Puritani  marches  just  as  the  carriage  was  landing  them 
at  the  door  of  her  house.  The  notes  were  harsh,  dissonant, 
drunken,  interlocked,  and  horribly  torn  asunder,  intolerable 
to  ears  not  keen  to  extract  the  tune  through  dreadful  mem- 
ories. Diana  sat  startled  and  paralyzed.  The  melody  crashed 
a  revival  of  her  days  with  Dacier,  as  in  gibes — and  yet  it 
reached  to  her  heart.  She  imagined  a  Providence  that  was 
trying  her  on  the  threshold,  striking  at  her  feebleness.  She 
had  to  lock  herself  in  her  room  for  an  hour  of  deadly  abandon- 
ment to  misery,  resembling  the  run  of  poison  through  her 
blood,  before  she  could  bear  to  lift  eyes  on  her  friend;  to 
whom  subsequently  she  said,  "Emmy,  there  are  wounds  that 
cut  sharp  as  the  enchanter's  sword,  and  we  don't  know  we  are 
in  halves  till  some  rough  old  intimate  claps  us  on  the  back 
merely  to  ask  us  how  we  are!  I  have  to  join  myself  together 
again  as  well  as  I  can.  It's  done,  dear;  but  don't  notice  the 
cement." 

"You  will  be  brave,"  Emma  petitioned. 

"I  long  to  show  you  I  will." 

The  meeting  with  those  who  could  guess  a  portion  of  her 
story  did  not  disconcert  her.  To  Lady  Pennon  and  Lady 
Singleby  she  was  the  brilliant  Diana  of  her  nominal  luminary 
issuing  from  cloud.  Face  and  tongue  she  was  the  same;  and, 
once  in  the  stream,  she  soon  gathered  its  current  topics  and 
scattered  her  arrowy  phrases.  Lady  Pennon  ran  about  with 
them,  declaring  that  the  beautiful  speaker,  if  ever  down,  was 
up,  and  up  to  her  finest  mark.  Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett  had  then 
become  the  blazing  regnant  anti-social  star — a  distresser  of 
domesticity,  the  magnetic  attraction  in  the  spirituous  flames 
of  that  wild  snapdragon  bowl  called  the  upper  class;  and  she 


350  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

was  angelically  blonde^  a  straw-colored  beauty.  "A  lovely 
wheatsheaf  if  the  head  were  ripe/'  Diana  said  of  her. 

"Threshed,  says  her  fame,  my  dear/'  Lady  Pennon  replied, 
otherwise  allusive. 

"A  wheatsheaf  of  contention  for  the  bread  of  wind/'  said 
Diana,  thinking  of  foolish  Sir  Lukin;  thoughtless  of  talking  to 
a  gossip. 

She  would  have  shot  a  lighter  dart  had  she  meant  it  to  fly 
and  fix. 

Proclaim,  ye  classics,  what  minor  goddess,  or  primal  Iris  or 
Ate,  sped  straight  away  on  wing  to  the  empty  wheatsheaf- 
ears  of  the  golden-visaged  Amabel  Fryar-Gunnett,  daughter 
of  Demeter  in  the  field  to  behold,  of  Aphrodite  in  her  rosy 
incendiarism  for  the  many  of  men;  filling  that  pearly  con- 
cave with  a  perversion  of  the  uttered  speech,  such  as  never 
lady  could  have  repeated,  nor  man,  if  less  than  a  reaping  har- 
vester: which  verily  for  women  to  hear  is  to  stamp  a  sub- 
stantial damnatory  verification  upon  the  delivery  of  the  say- 
ing:— 

"Mrs.  Warwick  says  of  you  that  you're  a  bundle  of  straws 
for  everybody  and  bread  for  nobody." 

Or,  stranger  speculation,  through  what,  and  what  number 
of  conduits — curious,  and  variously  coloring — did  it  reach 
the  fair  Amabel  of  the  infant-in-cradle  smile,  in  that  deforma- 
tion of  the  original  utterance!  To  pursue  the  thing  would 
be  to  enter  the  subtersensual  perfumed  caverns  of  a  Eomance 
of  Fashionable  Life,  with  no  hope  of  coming  back  to  light 
other  than  by  tail  of  lynx,  like  the  great  Arabian  seaman  at 
the  last  page  of  the  final  chapter.  A  prospectively  popular 
narrative  indeed!   and  coin  to  reward  it,  and  applause. 

But  I  am  reminded  that  a  story  properly  closed  on  the 
marriage  of  the  heroine  Constance  and  her  young  Minister  of 
State  has  no  time  for  conjuring  chemists'  bouquet  of  aristoc- 
racy to  lure  the  native  taste.  When  we  have  satisfied  Eng- 
lish sentiment  our  task  is  done,  in  every  branch  of  art,  I  hear : 
and  it  will  account  to  posterity  for  the  condition  of  the 
branches.  Those  yet  wakeful  eccentrics  interested  in  such  a 
person  as  Diana,  to  the  extent  of  remaining  attentive  till  the 
curtain  falls,  demand  of  me  to  gather  up  the  threads  con- 
cerning her:  which  my  gardener,  sweeping  his  pile  of  dead 
leaves  before  the  storm  and  night,  advises  me  to  do  speedily. 
But  it  happens  that  her  resemblance  to  her  sex  and  species 


DIAN.A    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  351 

of  a  civilized  period  plants  the  main  threads  in  her  bosom. 
Eogues  and  a  policeman,  or  a  hurried  change  of  front  of  all 
the  actors,  are  not  a  part  of  our  slow  machinery. 

Nor  is  she  to  show  herself  to  advantage.  Only  those  who 
read  her  woman^s  blood  and  character  with  the  head  will 
care  for  Diana  of  The  Crossways  now  that  the  knot  of  her 
history  has  been  unraveled.  Some  httle  love  they  must  have 
for  her  likewise;  and  how  it  can  be  quickened  on  behalf  of  a 
woman  who  never  sentimentalizes  publicly,  and  has  no  dolly- 
dolly  compliance,  and  muses  on  actual  life,  and  fatigues  with 
the  exercise  of  brains,  and  is  in  sooth  an  alien — a  princess  of 
her  kind  and  time,  but  a  foreign  one,  speaking  a  language 
distinct  from  the  mercantile,  trafficking  in  ideas — this  is  the 
problem.  For  to  be  true  to  her  one  cannot  attempt  at  pro- 
pitiation. She  said  worse  things  of  the  world  than  that  which 
was  conveyed  to  the  boxed  ears  of  Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett.  Ac- 
cepting the  war  declared  against  her  a  second  time,  she  per- 
formed the  common  mental  trick  in  adversity  of  setting  her 
personally  known  innocence  to  lessen  her  generally  unknown 
error:  but,  anticipating  that  this  might  become  known,  and 
the  other  not — and  feeling  that  the  motives  of  the  acknowl- 
edged error  had  served  to  guard  her  from  being  the  culprit  of 
the  charge  she  writhed  under — she  rushed  out  of  a  meditation 
compounded  of  mind  and  nerves,  with  derision  of  the  world's 
notion  of  innocence  and  estimate  of  error.  It  was  a  mood 
lasting  through  her  stay  in  London,  and  longer,  to  the  dis- 
comfort of  one  among  her  friends;  and  it  was  worthy  of  The 
Anti-Climax  Expedition,  as  she  called  it. 

For  the  rest,  her  demeanor  to  the  old  monster  world  exact- 
ing the  servility  of  her,  in  repaj^ment  for  its  tolerating  coun- 
tenance, was  faultless.  Emma  beheld  the  introduction  to  Mrs. 
Warwick  of  his  bride  by  Mr.  Percy  Dacier.  She  had  watched 
their  approach  up  the  ballroom,  thinking  how  differently 
would  Eedworth  and  Tony  have  looked.  Differently,  had  it 
been  Tony  and  Dacier:  but  Emma  could  not  persuade  her- 
self of  a  possible  harmony  between  them,  save  at  the  cost  of 
Tony's  expiation  of  the  sin  of  the  greater  heart  in  a  per- 
formance equivalent  to  suttee.  Perfectly  an  English  gentle- 
man of  the  higher  order,  he  seemed  the  effigy  of  a  tombstone 
one,  fixed  upright,  and  civilly  proud  of  his  effigy  bride.  So 
far,  Emma  considered  them  fitted.  She  perceived  his  quick 
eye  on  her  corner  of  the  room;  necessarily,  for  a  man  of  his 


352  DIAN'A   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

breeding,  without  a  change  of  expression.  An  emhlem  per- 
taining to  her  creed  was  on  the  heroine's  neck;  also  de- 
pendent at  her  waist.  She  was  white  from  head  to  foot;  a 
symbol  of  purity.  Her  frail  smile  appeared  deeply  studied  in 
purity.  Judging  from  her  look  and  her  reputation,  Emma 
divined  that  the  man  was  justly  mated  with  a  devious  filmy 
sentimentalist,  likely  to  "fiddle  harmonies  on  the  sensual 
strings"  for  him  at  a  mad  rate  in  the  years  to  come.  Such 
fiddling  is  indeed  the  peculiar  diversion  of  the  opulent  of  a 
fatly  prosperous  people;  who  take  it,  one  may  concede  to  them, 
for  an  inspired  elimination  of  the  higher  notes  of  life:  the 
very  highest.  That  saying  of  Tony's  ripened  with  full  signifi- 
cance to  Emma  now.  Not  sensualism,  but  sham  spiritualism, 
was  the  meaning;  and,  however  fine  the  notes,  they  come 
skillfully  evoked  of  the  under-brute  in  us.  Eeasoning  it  so, 
she  thought  it  a  saying  for  the  penetration  of  the  most  pol- 
ished and  deceptive  of  the  later  human  masks.  She  had  be- 
sides, be  it  owned,  a  triumph  in  conjuring  a  sentence  of  her 
friend's,  like  a  sword's  edge,  to  meet  them;  for  she  was  boil- 
ing angrily  at  the  ironical  destiny  which  had  given  to  those 
two  a  beclouding  of  har  beloved,  whom  she  could  have  re- 
buked in  turn  for  her  insane  caprice  of  passion. 

But  when  her  beloved  stood  up  to  greet  Mrs.  Percy  Dacier 
all  idea  save  tremulous  admiration  of  the  valiant  woman,  who 
had  been  wounded  nigh  to  death,  passed  from  Emma's  mind. 
Diana  tempered  her  queenliness  to  address  the  favored  lady 
with  smiles  and  phrases  of  gentle  warmth,  of  goodness  of 
nature;  and  it  became  a  halo  rather  than  a  personal  eclipse 
that  she  cast. 

Emma  looked  at  Dacier.  He  wore  the  prescribed  conven- 
tional air,  subject  in  half-a-minute  to  a  rapid  blinking  of  the 
eyelids.  His  wife  could  have  been  inimically  imagined  fas- 
cinated and  dwindling.  A  spot  of  color  came  to  her  cheeks. 
She  likewise  began  to  blink. 

The  happy  couple  bowed,  proceeding;  and  Emma  had 
Dacier's  back  for  a  study.  We  score  on  that  flat  slate  of  man — 
unattractive  as  it  is  to  hostile  observations,  and  unprotected — 
the  device  we  choose.  Her  harshest,  was  the  positive  thought 
that  he  had  taken  the  woman  best  suited  to  him.  Doubtless, 
he  was  a  man  to  prize  the  altar-candle  above  the  lamp  of  day. 
She  fancied  the  back  view  of  him  shrunken  and  straitened — 
perhaps  a  mere  hostile  fancy;  though  it  was  conceivable  that 


DIANA  OF    THE    CROSS  WAYS.  353 

he  should  desire  as  little  of  these  meetings  as  possible. 
Eclipses  are  not  courted. 

The  specially  womanly  exultation  of  Emma  Dunstane  in 
her  friend's  noble  attitude,  seeing  how  their  sex  had  been 
struck  to  the  dust  for  a  trifling  error,  easily  to  be  overlooked 
by  a  manful  lover,  and  had  asserted  its  dignity  in  physical  and 
moral  splendor,  in  self-mastery  and  benignness,  was  unshared 
by  Diana.  As  soon  as  the  business  of  the  expedition  was  over, 
her  orders  were  issued  for  the  sale  of  the  lease  of  her  house 
and  all  it  contained.  "I  would  sell  Danvers  too,"  she  said, 
"but  the  creature  declines  to  be  treated  as  merchandise.  It 
seems  I  have  a  faithful  servant;  very  much  like  my  life,  not 
quite  to  my  taste;  the  one  thing  out  of  the  wreck! — with  my 
dog!" 

Before  quitting  her  house  for  the  return  to  Copsley  she  had 
to  grant  Mr.  Alexander  Hepburn,  post-haste  from  his  Cale- 
donia, a  pjivate  interview.  She  came  out  of  it  noticeably 
shattered.  Nothing  was  related  to  Emma  beyond  the  re- 
mark, "I  never  knew  till  this  morning  the  force  of  No  in 
earnest."  The  weighty  little  word — woman's  native  watch- 
dog and  guardian,  if  she  calls  it  to  her  aid  in  earnest — had 
encountered  and  withstood  a  fiery  ancient  host,  astonished  at 
its  novel  power  of  resistance. 

Emma  contented  herself  with  the  result.  "Were  you  much 
supplicated?" 

"An  Operatic  Fourth  Act,"  said  Diana,  by  no  means  feeling 
so  flippantly  as  she  spoke. 

She  received,  while  under  the  impression  of  this  man's 
honest,  if  primitive,  ardor  of  courtship,  or  effort  to  capture, 
a  characteristic  letter  from  Westlake,  choicely  phrased,  con- 
taining presumably  an  application  for  her  hand,  in  the  gener- 
ous offer  of  his  own.  Her  reply  to  a  pursuer  of  that  sort  was 
easy.  Comedy,  after  the  barbaric  attack,  refreshed  her  wits 
and  reliance  on  her  natural  fencing  weapons.  To  Westlake, 
the  unwritten  No  was  conveyed  in  a  series  of  kindly  ironic 
subterfuges,  that  played  it  like  an  impish  flea  across  the  pages, 
just  giving  the  bloom  of  the  word;  and  rich  smiles  came  to 
Emma's  life  in  reading  the  dexterous  composition;  which, 
however,  proved  so  thoroughly  to  Westlake's  taste,  that  a 
second  and  a  third  exercise  in  the  Comedy  of  the  negative 
had  to  be  despatched  to  him  from  Copsley. 


354  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 


CHAPTEE  XL. 

IN  WHICH  WE  SEE  NATURE  MAKING  OF  A  WOMAN  A 
MAID  AGAIN,  AND  A  THRICE  WHIMSICAL. 

On  their  way  from  London,  after  leaving  the  station,  the 
drive  through  the  valley  led  them  past  a  field,  w.here  cricketers 
were  at  work  howling  and  batting  under  a  vertical  sun:  not  a 
very  comprehensible  sight  to  ladies,  whose  practical  tenden- 
cies, as  observers  of  the  other  sex,  inchne  them  to  question  the 
gain  of  such  an  expenditure  of  energy.  The  dispersal  of  the 
alphabet  over  a  printed  page  is  not  less  perplexing  to  the 
illiterate.  As  soon  as  Emma  Dunstane  discovered  the  Cops- 
ley  head  gamekeeper  at  one  wicket,  and,  actually,  Thomas 
Redworth  facing  him,  bat  in  hand,  she  sat  up,  greatly  inter- 
ested. Sir  Lukin  stopped  the  carriage  at  the  gate,  and  re- 
minded his  wife  that  it  was  the  day  of  the  year  for  the  men 
of  his  estate  to  encounter  a  valley  Eleven.  Redworth,  like 
the  good  fellow  he  was,  had  come  down  by  appointment  in 
the  morning  out  of  London,  to  fill  the  number  required,  Cops- 
ley  being  weak  this  year.  Eight  of  their  wickets  had  fallen 
for  a  lamentable  figure  of  twenty-nine  runs;  himself  clean- 
bowled  the  first  ball.  But  Tom  Redworth  had  got  fast  hold 
of  his  wicket,  and  already  scored  fifty  to  his  bat.  "There! 
grand  hit!"  Sir  Lukin  cried,  the  ball  flying  hard  at  the  rails. 
"Once  a  cricketer  always  a  cricketer,  if  you've  legs  to  fetch 
the  runs.  And  Pullen's  not  doing  badly.  His  business  is  to 
stick.  We  shall  mark  them  a  hundred  yet.  I  do  hate  a  score 
on  our  side  without  the  two  OO's."  He  accounted  for  Red- 
worth's  mixed  colors  by  telling  the  ladies  he  had  lent  him 
his  flannel  Jacket;  which,  against  black  trousers,  looked  odd 
but  not  ill. 

Gradually  the  enthusiasm  of  the  booth  and  bystanders  con- 
verted the  flying  of  a  leather  ball  into  a  subject  of  honorable 
excitement. 

"And  why  are  you  doing  nothing?"  Sir  Lukin  was  asked; 
and  he  explained: 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  (     355 

"My  stumps  are  down:  I'm  married.'^  He  took  his  wife's 
hand  prettily. 

Diana  had  a  maUcious  prompting.  She  smothered  the 
wasp,  and  said,  "Oh,  look  at  that!" 

"Grand  hit  again!  Oh!  good!  good!"  cried  Sir  Lukin, 
clapping  to  it,  while  the  long-hit-off  ran  spinning  his  legs  into 
one  for  an  impossible  catch;  and  the  batsmen  were  running 
and  stretching  bats,  and  the  ball  flying  away,  flying  back  and 
others  after  it,  and  still  the  batsmen  running,  till  it  seemed 
that  the  ball  had  escaped  control  and  was  leading  the  fielders 
on  a  coltish  innings  of  its  own,  defiant  of  the  bowlers. 

Diana  said  merrily,  "Bravo  our  side!" 

"Bravo,  old  Tom  Eedworth,"  rejoined  Sir  Lukin.  "Four 
and  a  three!  And  capital  weather  haven't  we?  Hope  we 
shall  have  same  sort  of  day  next  month — return  match,  my 
ground.  I've  seen  Tom  Eedworth  score — old  days — over 
two  hundred  t'  his  bat.  And  he  used  to  bowl  too.  But 
bowling  wants  practice.  And,  Emmy,  look  at  the  old  fellows 
lining  the  booth,  pipe  in  mouth  and  cheering.  They  do  en- 
joy a  day  like  this.  We'll  have  a  supper  for  fifty  at  Copsley's — 
it's  fun.  By  Jove!  we  must  have  reached  up  to  near  the 
hundred." 

He  commissioned  a  neighboring  boy  to  hie  to  the  booth  for 
the  latest  figures,  and  his  emissary  taught  lightning  a  lesson. 

Diana  praised  the  little  fellow. 

"Yes,  he's  a  real  English  boy,"  said  Emma. 

"We've  thousands  of  'em^  thousands,  ready  to  your  hand," 
exclaimed  Sir  Lukin,  "and  a  confounded  Eadicalized  coun- 
try .  .  ."  he  muttered  gloomily  of  "let  us  be  kicked!  .  .  . 
any  amount  of  insult,  meek  as  gruel!  .  .  .  making  of  the 
finest  army  the  world  has  ever  seen!  You  saw  the  papers 
this  morning?  Good  Heaven!  how  a  nation  with  an  atom  of 
self-respect  can  go  on  standing  that  sort  of  bullying  from 
foreigners!  We  do.  We're  insulted  and  we're  threatened, 
and  we  call  for  a  hymn!     Now  then,  my  man,  what  is  it?" 

The  boy  had  flown  back.  "Ninety-two  marked,  sir;  ninety- 
nine  runs;  one  more  for  the  hundred." 

"Well  reckoned;  and  mind  you're  up  at  Copsley  for  the 
return  match.  And  Tom  Eedworth  says  they  may  bite  their 
thumbs  to  the  bone — they  don't  hurt  us.  I  tell  him  he  has 
no  sense  of  national  pride.  He  says  we're  not  prepared  for 
war.    We  never  are.     And  whose  the  fault?     Says  we're  a 


f^m) 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS. 


peaceful  people,  but  'ware  who  touches  us!  He  doesn't  feel 
a  kick.  Oh!  clever  snick!  Hurrah  for  the  hundred!  Two — 
three.  No;  don't  force  the  running,  you  fools! — though 
they're  wild  with  the  ball:  ha! — no! — all  right!"  The  wicket 
stood.     Hurrah! 

The  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  compelled  the  ladies  to  drive 
on. 

"Enthusiasm  has  the  privilege  of  not  knowing  monotony," 
said  Emma.     "He  looks  well  in  flannels." 

"Yes,  he  does,"  Diana  replied,  aware  «f  the  reddening  de- 
spite her  having  spoken  so  simply.  "I  think  the  chief  ad- 
vantage men  have  over  us  is  in  their  amusements."    . 

"Their  recreations." 

"That  is  the  better  word."  Diana  fanned  her  cheeks  and 
said  she  was  warm.  "I  mean  the  permanent  advantage.  For 
you  see  that  age  does  not  affect  them." 

"Tom  Redworth  is  not  a  patriarch,  my  dear." 

"Well,  he  is  what  would  be  called  mature." 

"He  can't  be  more  than  thirty-two  or  three;  and  that,  for 
a  man  of  his  constitution,  means  youth." 

"Well,  I  can  imagine  him  a  patriarch  playing  cricket." 

"I  should  imagine  you  imagine  the  possible  chances.  He 
is  the  father  who  would  play  with  his  boys." 

"And  lock  up  his  girls  in  the  nursery."  Diana  murmured 
of  the  extraordinary  heat. 

Emma  begged  her  to  remember  his  heterodox  views  of  the 
education  for  girls. 

"He  bats  admirably,"  said  Diana.  "I  wish  I  could  bat 
half  as  well." 

"Your  batting  is  with  the  tongue." 

"Not  so  good.  x\nd  a  solid  bat,  or  bludgeon,  to  defend 
the  poor  stumps,  is  surer.  But  there  is  the  difference  of 
cricket:  when  your  stumps  eve  down  you  are  idle,  at  leisure — - 
not  a  miserable  prisoner." 

"Supposing  all  marriages  miserable." 

"To  the  mind  of  me,"  said  Diana,  and  observed  Emma's 
rather  saddened  eyelids  for  a  proof  that  schemes  to  rob  her 
of  dear  liberty  were  certainly  planned. 

They  conversed  of  expeditions  to  Eedworth's  Berkshire 
mansion,  and  to  The  Crossways,  untenanted  at  the  moment, 
as  he  had  informed  Emma,  who  fancied  it  would  please  Tony 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  357 

to  pass  a  night  in  the  house  she  loved;  but  as  he  was  to  be 
of  the  party  she  coldly  acquiesced. 

The  woman  of  flesh  refuses  pliancy  when  we  want  it  of 
her,  and  will  not,  until  it  is  her  good  pleasure,  be  bent  to  the 
development  called  a  climax,  as  the  puppet-woman  mother 
of  Fiction  and  darling  of  the  multitude  ever  amiably  does 
at  a  hint  of  the  nuptial  chapter.  Diana,  in  addition,  sus- 
tained the  weight  of  brains.  Neither  with  waxen  optics  nor 
with  subservient  jointings  did  she  go  through  her  pathways 
of  the  world.  Her  direct  individuality  rejected  the  per- 
formance of  simpleton,  and  her  lively  blood,  the  warmer  for 
its  containment,  quickened  her  to  penetrate  things  and 
natures;  and  if  as  yet,  in  justice  to  the  loyal  male  friend, 
she  forbore  to  name  him  conspirator,  she  read  both  him  and 
Emma,  whose  inner  bosom  was  revealed  to  her,  without  an 
effort  to  see.  But  her  characteristic  chasteness  of  mind — 
not  coldness  of  the  blood — which  had  supported  an  arduous 
conflict,  past  all  existing  rights  closely  to  depict,  and  which 
barbed  her  to  pierce  to  the  wishes  threatening  her  freedom, 
deceived  her  now  to  think  her  flaming  in  blushes  came  of 
her  relentless  divination  on  behalf  of  her  recovered  treasure: 
whereby  the  clear  reading  of  others  distracted  the  view  of 
herself.  For  one  may  be  the  cleverest  alive  and  still  hood- 
winked while  blood  is  young  and  warm. 

The  perpetuity  of  the  contrast  presented  to  her  reflections, 
of  Redworth's  healthy,  open,  practical,  cheering  life,  and  her 
own  freakishly  interwinding,  darkly  penetrative,  simulacrum 
of  a  life,  cheerless  as  well  as  useless,  forced  her  humiliated 
consciousness  by  degrees,  in  spite  of  pride,  to  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  engaged  in  a  struggle  with  him;  and  that  he 
was  the  stronger — it  might  be  the  worthier:  she  thought 
him  the  handsomer.  He  throve  to  the  light  of  day,  and  she 
spun  a  silly  web  that  meshed  her  in  her  intricacies.  Her 
intuition  of  Emma's  wishes  led  to  this;  he  was  constantly 
before  her.  She  tried  to  laugh  at  the  image  of  the  concrete 
cricketer,  half-flanneled  and  red  of  face — the  "lucky  cal- 
culator," as  she  named  him  to  Emma,  who  shook  her  head, 
and  sighed.  The  abstract,  healthful,  and  powerful  man, 
able  to  play  besides  profitably  working,  defied  those  poor 
efforts.  Consequently,  at  once  she  sent  up  a  bubble  to  the 
skies,  where  it  became  a  spheral  realm,  of  far  too  fine  an 
atmosphere  for  men  to  breathe  in  it;  and  thither  she  trans- 


358  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

ported  herself  at  will  whenever  the  contrast,  with  its  accom- 
panying menace  of  a  tyrannic  subjugation,  overshadowed 
her.  In  the  above,  the  kingdom  composed  of  her  shattered 
romance  of  life  and  her  present  aspirings,  she  was  free  and 
safe.  Nothing  touched  her  there — ^nothing  that  Redworth 
did.  She  could  not  have  admitted  there  her  ideal  of  a  hero. 
It  was  the  sublimation  of  a  virgin's  conception  of  life,  better 
fortified  against  the  enemy.  She  peopled  it  with  souls  of 
the  great  and  pure,  gave  it  illimitable  horizons,  dreamy  nooks, 
ravishing  landscapes,  melodies  of  the  poets  of  music.  Higher 
and  more  celestial  than  the  Salvatore,  it  was  likewise — now 
she  could  assure  herself  serenely — independent  of  the  horrid 
blood-emotions.     Living  up  there  she  had  not  a  feeling. 

The  natural  result  of  this  habit  of  ascending  to  a  super- 
lunary home  was  the  loss  of  an  exact  sense  of  how  she  was 
behaving  below.  At  the  Berkshire  mansion  she  wore  a 
supercilious  air,  almost  as  icy  as  she  accused  the  place  of 
being.  Emma  knew  she  must  have  seen  in  the  library  a 
row  of  her  literary  ventures,  exquisitely  bound;  but  there 
was  no  allusion  to  the  books.  Mary  Paynham's  portrait  of 
Mrs.  Warwick  hung  staring  over  the  fireplace,  and  was  criti- 
cized as  though  its  occupancy  of  that  position  had  no  sig- 
nificance. 

"He  thinks  she  has  a  streak  of  genius,"  Diana  said  to 
Emma. 

"It  may  be  shown  in  time,'^  Emma  replied,  for  a  comment 
on  the  work.  "He  should  know,  for  the  Spanish  pictures 
are  noble  acquisitions." 

"They  are,  doubtless,  good  investments." 

He  had  been  foolish  enough  to  say,  in  Diana's  hearing,  that 
he  considered  the  purchase  of  the  Berkshire  estate  a  good 
investment.  It  had  not  yet  a  name.  She  suggested  various 
titles  for  Emma  to  propose:  "The  Funds";  or  "Capital 
Towers";  or  "Dividend  Manor";  or  "Eailholm";  blind  to 
the  evidence  of  inflicting  pain.  Emma,  from  what  she  had 
guessed  concerning  the  purchaser  of  The  Crossways,  appre- 
hended a  discovery  there  which  might  make  Tony's  treatment 
of  him  unkinder,  seeing  that  she  appeared  actuated  contra- 
riously;  and  only  her  invalid's  new  happiness  in  the  small 
excursions  she  was  capable  of  taking  to  a  definite  spot,  of 
some  homely  attractiveness,  moved  her  to  follow  her  own  pro- 
posal for  the  journey.     Diana  pleaded  urgently,  childishly  in 


DIANA   OP   THE3    CHOSSWAYS.  359 

tone,  to  have  Arthur  Rhodes  with  them,  "so  as  to  be  sure  of  a 
sympathetic  companion  for  a  walk  on  the  downs."  At  The 
Crossways  they  were  soon  aware  that  Mr.  Eedworth's 
domestics  were  in  attendance  to  serve  them.  Manifestly  the 
house  was  his  property,  and  not  much  of  an  investment! 
The  principal  bedroom,  her  father's  once,  and  her  own, 
devoted  now  to  Emma's  use,  appalled  her  with  a  resemblance 
to  her  London  home.  She  had  noticed  some  of  her  furniture 
at  "Dividend  Manor,"  and  chosen  to  consider  it  in  the  light 
of  a  bargain  from  a  purchase  at  the  sale  of  her  goods.  Here 
was  her  bed,  her  writing-table,  her  chair  of  authorship, 
desks,  books,  ornaments,  water-color  sketches.  And  the 
drawing-room  was  fitted  with  her  brackets  and  etageres,  hold- 
ing every  knick-knack  she  had  possessed  and  scattered,  small 
bronzes,  antiques,  ivory  junks,  quaint  ivory  figures — Chinese 
and  Japanese,  bits  of  porcelain,  silver  incense-urns,  dozens  of 
dainty  sundries.  She  had  a  shamed  curiosity  to  spy  for  an 
omission  of  one  of  them;  all  were  there.  The  Crossways  had 
been  turned  into  a  trap. 

Her  reply  to  this  blunt  wooing — conspired,  she  felt  just- 
ified in  thinking,  between  him  and  Emma — was  emphatic  in 
muteness.  She  treated  it  as  if  unobserved.  At  night,  in  bed, 
the  scene  of  his  mission  from  Emma  to  her  under  this  roof, 
barred  her  customary  ascent  to  her  planetary  kingdom.  Next 
day  she  took  Arthur  after  breakfast  for  a  walk  on  the  downs 
and  remained  absent  till  ten  minutes  before  the  hour  of  din- 
ner. As  to  that  young  gentleman,  he  was  near  to  being 
caressed  in  public.  Arthur's  opinions,  his  good  sayings,  were 
quoted;  his  excellent  companionship  on  really  poetical  walks, 
and  perfect  sympathy,  praised  to  his  face.  Challenged  by 
her  initiative  to  a  kind  of  language  that  threw  Eedworth  out, 
he  declaimed:  "We  pace  with  some  who  make  young  morn- 
ing stale." 

"Oh!  stale  as  peel  of  fruit  long  since  consumed,"  she 
chimed. 

And  so  they  proceeded;  and  they  laughed,  Emma  smiled  a 
little,  Eedworth  did  the  same  beneath  one  of  his  questioning 
frowns — a  sort  of  fatherly  grimace. 

A  suspicion  that  this  man,  when  infatuated,  was  able  to 
practice  the  absurdest  benevolence,  the  burlesque  of  chivalry, 
as  a  man-admiring  sex  esteems  it,  stirred  very  naughty  depths 
of  the  woman  in  Diana,  laboring  under  her  perverted  mood. 


360  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

She  put  Hm  to  proof,  for  the  chance  of  arming  her  wickedest 
to  despise  him.  Arthur  was  petted,  consulted,  cited,  flattered 
all  round — all  but  caressed.  She  played,  with  a  reserve,  the 
mature  young  woman  smitten  by  an  adorable  youth;  and 
enjoyed  doing  it  because  she  hoped  for  a  visible  effect — some 
paternal  benevolence — and  could  do  it  so  dispassionately. 
Coquetry,  Emma  thought,  was  most  unworthily  shown;  and 
it  was  of  the  worst  description.  Innocent  of  conspiracy,  she 
had  seen  the  array  of  Tony's  lost  household  treasures;  she 
wondered  at  a  heartlessness  that  would  not  even  utter  com- 
mon thanks  to  the  friendly  man  for  the  compliment  of  prizing 
her  portrait  and  the  things  she  had  owned;  and  there  seemed 
an  effort  to  wound  him. 

The  invalided  woman,  charitable  with  allowance  for  her 
erratic  husband,  could  offer  none  for  the  woman  of  a  long- 
widowhood,  that  had  become  a  trebly  sensitive  maidenhood; 
abashed  by  her  knoAvledge  of  the  world,  animated  by  her 
abounding  blood;  cherishing  her  new  freedom,  dreading  the 
menacer;  feeling  that,  though  she  held  the  citadel,  she  was 
daily  less  sure  of  its  foundations,  and  that  her  hope  of  some 
last  romance  in  life  was  going;  for  in  him  shone  not  a 
glimpse.  He  appeared  to  Diana  as  a  fatal  power,  attracting 
her  without  sympathy,  benevolently  overcoming:  one  of 
those  good  men,  strong  men,  who  subdue  and  do  not  kindle. 
The  enthralment  revolted  a  nature  capable  of  accepting  sub- 
jection only  by  burning.  In  return  for  his  moral  excellence 
she  gave  him  the  moral  sentiments:  esteem,  gratitude,  ab- 
stract admiration,  perfect  faith.  But  the  man?  She  could 
not  now  say  she  had  never  been  loved;  and  a  flood  of  tender- 
ness rose  in  her  bosom,  swelling  from  springs  that  she  had 
previously  reproved  with  a  desperate  severity:  the  unhappy, 
unsatisfied  yearning  to  be  more  than  loved,  to  love.  It  was 
alive,  out  of  the  wreck  of  its  first  trial.  This,  the  secret  of 
her  natural  frailty,  was  bitter  to  her  pride:  chastely-minded 
as  she  was  it  whelmed  her.  And  then  her  comic  imagination 
pictured  Eedworth,  dramatically  making  love.  And  to  a 
widow!  It  proved  him  to  be  senseless  of  romance.  Poetic  men 
take  aim  at  maidens.  His  devotedness  to  a  widow  was  charged 
against  him  by  the  widow's  shudder  at  antecedents  distasteful 
to  her  soul,  a  discoloration  of  her  life.  She  wished  to  look 
entirely  forward,  as  upon  a  world  washed  clear  of  night,  not 
to  be  cast  back  on  her  antecedents  by  practical  wooings  or 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  361 

words  of  love;  to  live  spiritually;  free  of  the  shower  at  her 
eyelids  attendant  on  any  idea  of  her  loving.  The  woman  who 
talked  of  the  sentimentalist's  "fiddling  harmonics"  herself 
stressed  the  material  chords  in  her  attempt  to  escape  out  of 
herself  and  away  from  her  pursuer. 

Meanwhile  she  was  as  little  conscious  of  what  she  was  doing 
as  of  how  she  appeared.  Arthur  went  about  with  a  moony 
air  of  surcharged  sweetness,  and  a  speculation  on  it,  alternately 
tiptoe  and  prostrate.  More  of  her  intoxicating  wine  was  ad- 
ministered to  him,  in  utter  thoughtlessness  of  consequences 
to  one  who  was  but  a  boy  and  a  friend,  almost  of  her  own 
rearing.  She  told  Emma,  v;hen  leaving  The  Crossways,  that 
she  had  no  desire  to  look  on  the  place  again:  she  wondered 
at  Mr.  Eedworth's  liking  such  a  solitude.  In  truth,  the  look 
back  on  it  let  her  perceive  that  her  husband  haunted  it,  and 
disfigured  the  man,  of  real  generosity,  as  her  heart  confessed, 
but  whom  she  accused  of  a  lack  of  prescient  delicacy  for  not 
kno"wdng  she  would  and  must  be  haunted  there.  Blaming 
him,  her  fountain  of  color  shot  up  at  a  murmur  of  her  unjust- 
ness  and  the  poor  man's  hopes. 

A  week  later  the  youth  she  publicly  named  "her  Arthur" 
came  down  to  Copsle}^  with  the  news  of  his  having  been  rec- 
ommendea  by  Mr.  Redworth  for  the  post  of  secretary  to  an 
old  Whig  nobleman  famous  for  his  patronage  of  men  of  let- 
ters. And  besides,  he  expected  to  inherit,  he  said,  and  gazed 
in  a  way  to  sharpen  her  instincts.  The  wine  he  had  drunk 
of  late  from  her  flowing  vintage  was  in  his  eyes.  They  were 
on  their  usual  rambles  out  along  the  heights.  "Accept,  by 
all  means,  and  thank  Mr.  Eedworth,"  said  she,  speeding  her 
tongue  to  intercept  him.  "Literature  is  a  good  stick  and  a  bad 
horse.  Indeed,  I  ought  to  know.  You  can  always  write;  I 
hope  you  will." 

She  stepped  fast,  hearing,  "Mrs.  Warwick — Diana!  May 
I  take  your  hand?" 

This  was  her  pretty  piece  of  work!  "Why  should  you? 
If  you  speak  my  Christian  name,  no:  you  forfeit  any  pretext. 
And  pray  don't  loiter.  We  are  going  at  the  pace  of  the  firm 
of  Potter  and  Dawdle,  and  you  know  they  never  got  their 
shutters  down  till  it  was  time  to  put  them  up  again." 

Nimble-footed  as  she  was,  she  pressed  ahead  too  fleetly  for 
amorous  elo(^uence  to  have  a  chance.     She  heard  "Diana!" 


362  DIANA.  OF   THE    CRQSSWAYS. 

twice,  through  the  rattling  of  her  discourse  and  flapping  of 
her  dress. 

"Christian  names  are  coin  that  seem  to  have  an  indifferent 
valuation  of  the  property  they  claim/'  she  said  in  the  Cops- 
ley  garden;  "and  as  for  hands,  at  meeting  and  parting,  here 
is  the  friendliest  you  could  have.  Only  don't  look  rueful. 
My  dear  Arthur,  spare  me  that,  or  I  shall  blame  myself  hor- 
ribly." 

His  chance  had  gone,  and  he  composed  his  face.  No  hope 
in  speaking  had  nerved  him;  merely  the  passion  to  speak. 
Diana  understood  the  state,  and  pitied  the  naturally  modest 
young  fellow,  and  chafed  at  herself  as  a  senseless  incendiary, 
who  did  mischief  right  and  left,  from  seeking  to  shun  the 
apparently  inevitable.  A  side-thought  intruded,  that  he 
would  have  done  his  wooing  poetically — not  in  the  burly 
storm,  or  bull-Saxon,,  she  apprehended.  Supposing  it  im- 
perative with  her  to  choose?  She  looked  up,  and  the  bird 
of  broader  wing  darkened  the  whole  sky,  bidding  her  know 
that  she  had  no  choice. 

Emma  was  requested  to  make  Mr.  Redworth  acquainted 
with  her  story,  all  of  it — "So  that  this  exalted  friendship  of 
his  may  be  shaken  to  a  common  level.  He  has  an  unbear- 
ably high  estimate  of  me,  and  it  hurts  me.  Tell  him  all; 
and  more  than  even  you  have  known.  But  for  his  coming  to 
me,  on  the  eve  of  your  passing  under  the  surgeons'  hands,  I 
should  have  gone — flung  the  world  my  glove!  A  matter  of 
minutes.  Ten  minutes  later!  The  train  was  to  start  for 
France  at  eight,  and  I  was  awaited.  I  have  to  thank  Heaven 
that  the  man  was  one  of  those  who  can  strike  icily.  Tell 
him  what  I  say.  You  two  converse  upon  every  subject.  One 
may  be  too  loftily  respected — ^in  my  case.  By-and-by — ^for 
he  is  a  tolerant  reader  of  life  and  women,  I  think — ^we  shall 
be  humdrum  friends  of  the  lasting  order." 

Emma's  cheeks  were  as  red  as  Diana's.  "I  fancy  Tom 
Redworth  has  not  much  to  learn  concerning  any  person  he 
cares  for,"  she  said.  "You  like  him?  I  have  lost  touch  of 
you,  my  dear,  and  ask." 

"I  like  him:  that  I  can  say.  He  is  everything  I  am  not. 
But,  now  I  am  free,  the  sense  of  being  undeservedly  over- 
esteemed  imposes  fetters,  and  I  don't  like  them.  I  have  been 
called  a  Beauty.  Rightly  or  other,  I  have  had  a  Beauty's 
career;  and  a  curious  caged  beast's  life  I  have  found  it.    Will 


DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  363 

you  promise  me  to  speak  to  him?  And  also  thank  him  for 
helping  Arthur  Rhodes  to  a  situation." 

At  this  the  tears  fell  from  her.  And  so  enigmatical  had 
she  grown  to  Emma  that  her  bosom  friend  took  them  for  a 
confessed  attachment  to  the  youth. 

Diana's  wretched  emotion  shamed  her  from  putting  any 
inquiries  whether  Eedworth  had  been  told.  He  came  re- 
peatedly, and  showed  no  change  of  face,  always  continuing 
in  the  form  of  huge  hovering  griffin  until  an  idea,  instead 
of  the  monster  bird,  struck  her.  Might  she  not,  after  all,  be 
cowering  under  imagination?  The  very  maidenly  idea 
wakened  her  womanliness — to  reproach  her  remainder  of 
pride,  not  to  see  more  accurately.  It  was  the  reason  why 
she  resolved,  against  Emma's  extreme  entreaties,  to  take 
lodgings  in  the  south  valley  below  the  heights,  where  she 
could  be  independent  of  fancies  and  perpetual  visitors,  but 
near  her  beloved  at  any  summons  of  urgency;  which  Emma 
would  not  habitually  send  because  of  the  coming  of  a  par- 
ticular gentleman.  Dresses  were  left  at  Copsley  for  dining 
and  sleeping  there  upon  occasion;  and  poor  Danvers,  despair- 
ing over  the  riddle  of  her  mistress,  was  condemned  to  the 
melancholy  descent.  "It's  my  belief,"  she  confided  to  Lady 
Dunstane's  maid  Bartlett,  "she'll  hate  men  all  her  life  after 
that  Mr.  Dacier." 

If  women  were  deceived,  and  the  riddle  deceived  herself, 
there  is  excuse  for  a  plain  man  like  Eedworth  in  not  having 
the  slightest  clue  to  the  daily  shifting  feminine  maze  he 
beheld.  The  strange  thing  was,  that  during  her  maiden  time 
she  had  never  been  shifty  or  flighty,  invariably  limpid  and 
direct. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

CONTAINS   A  REVELATION  OF  THE  ORIGIN   OF   THE 
TIGRESS  IN  DIANA. 

An  afternoon  of  high  summer  blazed  over  London  through 
the  City's  awning  of  smoke,  and  the  three  classes  of  the  popu- 
lation, relaxed  by  the  weariful  engagement  with  what  to  them 
was  a  fruitless  heat,  were  severally  bathing  their  ideas  in 
dreams  of  the  contrast  possible  to  embrace:    breezy  seas  or 


364  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

moors,  aerial  Alps,  cool  beer.  The  latter,  if  confessedly  the 
lower  comfort,  is  the  readier  at  command;  and  Thomas  Eed- 
worth,  whose  perspiring  frame  was  directing  his  inward  vision 
to  fly  for  solace  to  a  trim  new  yacht,  built  on  his  lines,  beck- 
oning from  Southampton  Water,  had  some  of  the  amusement 
proper  to  things  plucked  off  the  levels  in  the  conversation 
of  a  couple  of  journeymen  close  ahead  of  him,  as  he  made  his 
way  from  a  quiet  street  of  brokers'  offices  to  a  City  bank. 
One  asked  the  other  if  he  had  ever  tried  any  of  that  cold 
stuff  they  were  now  selling  out  of  barrows,  with  cream.  His 
companion  answered  that  he  had  not  got  much  opinion  of  stuff 
of  the  sort;   and  what  was  it  like? 

"Well,  it's  cheap,  it  ain't  bad;    it's  cooling.     But  it  ain't 
refreshing." 

"Just  what  I  reckoned  all  that  newf angle  rubbish." 
Without  a  consultation,  the  conservatives  in  beverage  filed 
with  a  smart  turn  about,  worthy  of  veterans  at  parade  on 
the  drill-ground,  into  a  public-house;  and  a  dialogue,  chiefly 
remarkable  for  absence  of  point,  furnished  matter  to  the 
politician's  head  of  the  hearer.  Provided  that  their  beer  was 
unadulterated!  Beer  they  would  have;  and  why  not,  in 
weather  like  this?  But  how  to  make  the  publican  honest? 
And  he  was  not  the  only  trickster  preying  on  the  multitu- 
dinous poor  copper  crowd,  rightly  to  be  protected  by  the  silver 
and  the  golden.  Eevelations  of  the  arts  practiced  to  plump 
them  with  raw  earth  and  minerals  in  the  guise  of  nourishment 
had  recently  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  general  conscience 
and  obtained  a  civil  reply  from  the  footman.  Eepulsive  as 
the  thought  was  to  one  still  holding  to  Whiggish  Liberalism, 
though  flying  various  Eadical  kites,  he  was  caught  by  the 
decisive  ultra-torrent,  and  whirled  to  admit  the  necessity  for 
the  interference  of  the  State  to  stop  the  poisoning  of  the  poor. 
Upper  classes  have  never  legislated  systematically  in  their 
interests;  and  quid  .  .  .  rabidae  tradis  ovile  lupae?  says 
one  of  the  multitude.  We  may  be  seeing  fangs  of  wolves 
where  fleeces  waxed.  The  State  that  makes  it  a  vital  principle 
to  concern  itself  with  the  helpless  poor  meets  instead  of 
waiting  for  Democracy;  which  is  a  perilous  flood  bnt  when  it 
is  dammed.  Or  else,  in  course  of  time  luxurious  yachting, 
my  friend,  will  encounter  other  reefs  and  breakers  than  briny 
ocean's!  Capital — whereat  Diana  AYarwick  aimed  her  superb- 
est  sneer — has  its  instant  duties.    She  theorized  on  the  side  of 


MANA  OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  365 

poverty,  and  might  do  so:  lie  had  no  right  to  be  theorizing 
on  the  side  of  riches.  Across  St.  George's  Channel  the  cry 
for  humanity  in  capital  was  an  agony.  He  ought  to  be  there, 
doing,  not  cogitating.  The  post  of  Irish  Secretary  must  be 
won  by  real  service  founded  on  absolute  local  knowledge. 
Yes,  and  sympathy,  if  you  like;  but  sympathy  is  for  proving, 
not  prating.     .     .     . 

These  were  the  meditations  of  a  man  in  love;  veins, 
arteries,  headpiece  in  love,  and  constantly  brooding  at  a  soli- 
tary height  over  the  beautiful  coveted  object;  only  too  bewil- 
dered by  her  multifarious  evanescent  feminine  evasions,  as  of 
colors  on  a  ruffled  water,  to  think  of  pouncing:  for  he  could 
do  nothing  to  soften,  nothing  that  seemed  to  please  her:  and 
all  the  while  the  motive  of  her  mind  impelled  him  in  reflec- 
tion beyond  practicable  limits — even  pointing  him  to  apt  quo- 
tations! Either  he  thought  within  her  thoughts  or  his  own 
were  at  her  disposal.  Nor  was  it  sufficient  for  him  to  be  sensi- 
ble of  her  influence  to  restrain  the  impetus  he  took  from  her. 
He  had  already  wedded  her  morally,  and  much  that  he  did,  as 
well  as  whatever  he  debated,  came  of  Diana;  more  than  if 
they  had  been  coupled,  when  his  downright  practical  good 
sense  could  have  spoken.  She  held  him  suspended,  swaying 
him  in  that  posture;  and  he  was  not  a  whit  ashamed  of  it. 
The  beloved  woman  w^as  throned  on  the  very  highest  of  the 
man. 

Furthermore,  not  being  encouraged,  he  had  his  peculiar 
reason  for  delay,  though  now  he  could  offer  her  wealth.  She 
had  once  in  his  hearing  derided  the  unpleasant  hiss  of  the 
ungainly  English  matron's  title  of  Mrs.  There  was  no  harm 
in  the  accustomed  title,  to  his  taste;  but,  she  disliking  it,  he 
did  the  same,  on  her  special  behalf;  and  the  prospect,  fune- 
really draped,  of  a  title  sweeter-sounding  to  her  ears  was 
above  his  horizon.  Bear  in  mund,  that  he  underwent  the 
reverse  of  encouragement.  Any  small  thing  to  please  her 
was  magnified,  and  the  anticipation  of  it  nerved  the  modest 
hopes  of  one  who  deemed  himself  and  any  man  alive  deeply 
her  inferior. 

Such  was  the  mood  of  the  lover  condemned  to  hear  another 
malignant  scandal  defiling  the  name  of  the  woman  he  wor- 
shiped. Sir  Lukin  Dunstane,  extremely  hurried,  bumped 
him  on  the  lower  step  of  the  busy  bank,  and  said,  "Pardon!" 
and  "Ha!  Redworth!  making  money?" 


366  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"Why,  what  are  you  up  to  down  here?"  he  was  asked, 
and  he  answered,  "Down  to  the  Tower,  to  an  officer  quar- 
tered there.  Not  bad  quarters,  but  an  infernal  distance. 
Business." 

Having  cloaked  his  expedition  to  the  distance  with  the 
comprehensive  word  he  repeated  it;  by  which  he  feared  he 
had  rendered  it  too  significant,  and  he  said,  "No,  no;  nothing 
particular;"  and  that  caused  the  secret  he  contained  to  swell 
in  his  breast  rebelliously,  informing  the  candid  creature  of  the 
fact  of  his  hating  to  lie:  whereupon  thus  he  poured  himself 
out,  in  the  quieter  bustle  of  an  alley  off  the  main  thoroughfare. 
"You're  a  friend  of  hers.  I'm  sure  you  care  for  her  reputa- 
tion; you're  an  old  friend  of  hers,  and  she's  my  wife's  dearest 
friend;  and  I'm  fond  of  her  too;  and  I  ought  to  be,  and  ought 
to  know,  and  do  know: — pure?  Strike  off  my  fist  if  there's 
a  spot  on  her  character!  And  a  scoundrel  like  that  fellow 
Wroxeter! — Damnedest  rage  I  ever  was  in! — Swears  .  .  . 
down  at  Lockton  .  .  .  when  she  was  a  girl.  Why,  Red- 
worth,  I  can  tell  you,  when  Diana  Warwick  was  a  girl " 

Eedworth  stopped  him.    "Did  he  say  it  in  your  presence?" 

Sir  Lukin  was  drawn  up  by  the  harsh  question.  "Well, 
no;  not  exactly."  He  tried  to  hesitate,  but  he  was  in  the 
hot  vein  of  a  confidence,  and  he  wanted  advice.  "The  cur 
said  it  to  a  woman — hang  the  woman!  And  she  hates  Diana 
Warwick:  I  can't  tell  why — a  regular  snake's  hate.  By  Jove! 
how  women  can  hate!" 

"Who  is  the  woman?"  said  Eedworth. 

Sir  Lukin  complained  of  the  mob  at  his  elbows.  '^I  don't 
like  mentioning  names  here." 

A  convenient  open  door  of  offices  invited  him  to  drag  his 
receptacle,  and  possible  counselor,  into  the  passage,  where 
immediately  he  bethought  him  of  a  postponement  of  the  dis- 
tinct communication;  but  the  vein  was  too  hot.  "I  say,  Eed- 
worth, I  wish  you'd  dine  with  me.  Let's  drive  up  to  my  club. 
— Very  well,  two  words.  And  I  warn  you,  I  shall  call  him 
out,  and  make  it  appear  it's  about  another  woman,  who'll 
like  nothing  so  much,  if  I  know  the  Jezebel.  Some  women 
are  hussies  let  'em  be  handsome  as  houris.  And  she's  a  fire- 
ship;  by  Heaven,  she  is!  Come,  you're  a  friend  of  my  wife's, 
but  you're  a  man  of  the  world  and  my  friend,  and  you  know 
how  fellows  are  tempted,  Tom  Eedworth. — Cur  though  he  is. 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  367 

lie's  likely  to  step  out  and  receive  a  lesson. — ^Well,  he's  the 
favored  cavalier  for  the  present.  .  .  .  h'm  .  .  . 
Fryar-Gunnett.  Swears  he  told  her,  circumstantially;  and  it 
was  down  at  Lockton,  when  Diana  Warwick  was  a  girl.  Swears 
she'll  spit  her  venom  at  her  so  that  Diana  Warwick  shan't 
hold  her  head  up  in  London  society,  what  with  that  cur 
Wroxeter,  old  Dannisburgh,  and  Dacier.  And  it  does  count 
a  list,  doesn't  it? — confound  the  handsome  hag!  She's  jeal- 
ous of  a  dark  rival.  I've  been  down  to  Colonel  Hartswood  at 
the  Tower,  and  he  thinks  Wroxeter  deserves  horsewhipping, 
and  we  may  manage  it.  I  know  you're  dead  against  dueling; 
and  so  am  I,  on  my  honor.  But  you  see  there  are  cases  where 
a  lady  must  be  protected;  and  anything  new,  left  to  circu- 
late against  a  lady  who  has  been  talked  of  twice — oh,  by  Jove! 
it  must  be  stopped.  If  she  has  a  male  friend  on  earth  it  must 
be  stopped  on  the  spot." 

Eedworth  eyed  Sir  Lukin  curiously  through  his  wrath. 

"We'll  drive  up  to  your  club,"  he  said. 

"Hartswood  dines  with  me  this  evening,  to  confer,"  re- 
joined Sir  Lukin.    "Will  you  meet  him?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Redworth;  "I  have  to  see  a  lady,  whose 
affairs  I  have  been  attending  to  in  the  City;  and  I'm  engaged 
for  the  evening.  You  perceive,  my  good  fellow,"  he  resumed, 
as  they  rolled  along,  "this  is  a  delicate  business.  You  have 
to  consider  your  wife.  Mrs.  Warwick's  name  won't  come  up, 
but  another  woman's  will." 

"I  meet  Wroxeter  at  a  gambling-house  he  frequents,  and 
publicly  call  him  a  cheat — slap  his  face  if  need  be." 

"Sure  to!"  repeated  Eedworth.  "No  stupid  pretext  will 
quash  the  woman's  name.  Now,  such  a  thing  as  a  duel 
would  give  pain  enough." 

"Of  course;  I  understand,"  Sir  Lukin  nodded  his  clear 
comprehension.  "But  what  is  it  you  advise,  to  trounce  the 
scoundrel  and  silence  him?" 

"Leave  it  to  me  for  a  day.  Let  me  have  your  word  that 
you  won't  take  a  step:  positively — neither  you  nor  Colonel 
Hartswood.  I'll  see  you  by  appointment  at  your  club."  Red- 
worth  looked  up  over  the  chimneys.  "We're  going  to  have 
a  storm  and  a  gale  I  can  tell  you." 

"Gale  and  storm!"  cried  Sir  Lukin;  "what  has  that  got 
to  do  with  it?" 

"Think  of  something  else  for  a  time," 


368  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"And  that  brute  of  a  woman — deuced  handsome  she  is! — ■ 
if  you  care  for  fair  women,  Eedworth: — she's  a  Venus  jumped 
slap  out  of  the  waves,  and  the  devil  for  sire — that  you  learn 
— running  about,  sowing  her  lies.  She's  a  yellow  witch!  Oh! 
but  she's  a  shameless  minx.  And  a  black-leg  cur  like  Wroxe- 
ter!  Any  woman  intimate  with  a  fellow  like  that  stamps 
herself.  I  loathe  her.  Sort  of  woman  who  swears  in  the 
morning  you're  the  only  man  on  earth;  and  next  day — that 
evening — engaged! — ^fee  to  Polly  Hopkins — and  it's  a  gentle- 
man, a  nobleman,  my  lord! — been  going  on  behind  your  back 
half  the  season! — and  she  isn't  hissed  when  she  abuses  a  lady, 
a  saint  in  comparison!  You  know  the  world,  old  fellow — 
Brighton,  Eichmond,  visits  to  a  friend  as  deep  in  the  bog. 
How  Fryar-Gunnett — a  man,  after  all — can  stand  it!  And 
drives  of  an  afternoon  for  an  airing — ^by  Heaven!  You're  out 
of  that  mess,  Eedworth:  not  much  taste  for  the  sex;  and 
you're  right,  you're  lucky.  Upon  my  word,  the  corruption  of 
society  in  the  present  day  is  awful;  it's  appalling. — I  rattled 
at  her:  and  oh!  dear  me,  perks  on  her  hind  heels  and  defies 
me  to  prove:  and  she's  no  pretender,  but  hopes  she's  as  good 
as  any  of  my  "^chaste  Dianas.'  My  dear  old  friend,  it's  when 
you  come  upon  women  of  that  kind  you  have  a  sickener.  And 
I'm  bound  by  the  best  there  is  in  a  man — ^honor,  gratitude, 
all  the  list — to  defend  Diana  Warwick." 

"So,  you  see,  for  your  wife's  sake,  your  name  can't  be  hung 
on  a  woman  of  that  kind,"  said  Eedworth.  "I'll  call  here  the 
day  after  to-morrow  at  three  p.  m." 

Sir  Lukin  descended,  and  vainly  pressed  Eedworth  to  run 
up  into  his  club  for  refreshment.  Said  he  roguishly,  "Who's 
the  lady?" 

The  tone  threw  Eedworth  on  his  frankness.  "The  lady 
I've  been  doing  business  for  in  the  City  is  Miss  Paynham." 

"I  saw  her  once  at  Copsley;   good-looking.     Cleverish?" 

"She  has  ability." 

Entering  his  club.  Sir  Lukin  was  accosted  in  the  reading- 
room  by  a  cavalry  officer,  a  Colonel  Launay,  an  old  Har- 
rovian, who  stood  at  the  window  and  asked  him  whether  it 
was  not  Tom  Eedworth  in  the  cab.  Another,  of  the  same 
school,  standing  squared  before  a  sheet  of  one  of  the  evening 
newspapers,  heard  the  name  and  joined  them,  saying,  "Tom 
Eedworth  is  going  to  be  married  some  fellow  told  me." 

"He'll  make  a  deuced  good  husband  to  any  woman— if 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  369 

it's  true/'  said  Sir  Lukin,  with  Miss  Paynham  ringing  in  his 
head.  "He's  a  cold-blooded  old  boy,  and  likes  women  for  their 
intellects." 

Colonel  Launay  hummed  in  meditative  emphasis.  He  stared 
at  vacancy  with  a  tranced  eye,  and  turning  a  similar  gaze  on 
Sir  Lukin,  as  if  through  him,  burst  out,  "Oh,  by  George,  I 
say,  what  a  hugging  that  woman'll  get!'' 

The  cocking  of  ears  and  queries  of  Sir  Lukin  put  him  to 
the  test  of  his  right  to  the  remark:  for  it  sounded  of  occult 
acquaintance  with  interesting  subterranean  facts:  and  there 
was  a  communication,  in  brief  syllables  and  the  dot  language, 
crudely  masculine.  Immensely  surprised.  Sir  Lukin  exclaimed, 
"Of  course!  when  fellows  live  quietl}^  and  are  careful  of  them- 
selves. Ah!  you  may  think  you  know  a  man  for  years,  and 
you  don't:  you  don't  know  more  than  an  inch  or  two  of  him. 
Why,  of  course,  Tom  Eedworth  'd  be  uxorious — the  very 
man!  And  tell  us  what  has  become  of  the  Firefly  now.  One 
never  sees  her.    Didn't  complain?" 

"Very  much  to  the  contrary." 

Both  gentlemen  were  gr^ve,  believing  their  knowledge  in 
the  subterranean  world  of  a  wealthy  city  to  give  them  a  posi- 
tive cognizance  of  female  humanity;  and  the  substance  of 
Colonel  Launay's  communication  had  its  impressiveness  for 
them. 

"Well,  it's  a  turn  right-about-face  for  me,"  said  Sir  Lukin. 
"What  a  world  we  live  in!  I  fancy  I've  hit  on  the  woman 
he  meaite  to  marry — had  an  idea  of  another  woman  once;  but 
he's  one  of  your  friendly  fellows  with  women.  That's  how 
it  was  I  took  him  for  a  fish.  Great  mistake,  I  admit.  But 
Tom  Eedworth's  a  man  of  morals  after  all;  and  when  these 
men  do  break  loose  for  a  plunge — ha!  Have  you  ever  boxed 
with  him?  Well,  he  keeps  himself  in  training,  I  can  tell 
you." 

Sir  Lukin's  round  of  visits  drew  him  at  night  to  Lady 
Singleby's,  where  he  sighted  the  identical  young  lady  of  his 
thoughts.  Miss  Paynham,  temporarily  a  guest  of  the  house; 
and  he  talked  to  her  of  Redworth,  and  had  the  satisfaction 
to  spy  a  blush,  a  raging  blush:  which  avowal  presented  her 
to  his  views  as  an  exceedingly  good-looking  girl;  so  that  he 
began  mentally  to  praise  Eedworth  for  a  manly  superiority  to 
small  trifles  and  the  world's  tattle. 

"You  saw  him  to-day,"  he  said. 

24 


S70  DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

She  answered:  "Yes.  He  goes  down  to  Copsley  to-mor- 
row." 

"I  think  not/'  said  Sir  Lukin. 

"I  have  it  from  him."    She  closed  her  eyelids  in  speaking. 

"He  and  I  have  some  rather  serious  business  in  town." 

"Serious?" 

"Don't  be  alarmed:    not  concerning  him." 

"Whom,  then?  You  have  told  me  so  much — I  have  a  right 
to  know." 

"Not  an  atom  of  danger,  I  assure  you." 

"It  concerns  Mrs.  Warwick!"  said  she. 

Sir  Lukin  thought  the  guess  extraordinary.  He  preserved 
an  impenetrable  air.  But  he  had  spoken  enough  to  set  that 
giddy  head  spinning. 

Nowhere  during  the  night  was  Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett  visible. 
Earlier  than  usual  she  was  riding  next  day  in  the  Row,  alone 
for  perhaps  two  minutes,  and  Sir  Lukin  passed  her,  formally 
saluting.  He  could  not  help  the  look  behind  him,  she  sat  so 
bewitchingly  on  horseback!  He  looked,  and  behold,  her  rid- 
ing-whip was  raised  erect  from  the  elbow.  It  was  his  horse 
that  wheeled;  compulsorily  he  was  borne  at  a  short  canter  to 
her  side. 

"Your  commands?" 

The  handsome  Amabel  threw  him  a  somber  glance  from 
the  corners  of  her  uplifted  eye-lids:  and  snakish  he  felt  it; 
but  her  color  and  the  line  of  her  face  went  well  with  sullen- 
ness;  and,  her  arts  of  fascination  cast  aside,  she  fascinated 
him  more  in  seeming  homelier,  girlish.  If  the  trial  of  her 
beauty  of  a  woman  in  a  temper  can  bear  the  strain  she  has 
attractive  lures  indeed;  irresistible  to  the  amorous  idler:  and 
when,  in  addition,  being  the  guilty  person,  she  plays  the  in- 
jured, her  show  of  temper  on  the  taking  face  pitches  him 
into  perplexity  with  his  own  emotions,  creating  a  desire  to 
strike  and  be  stricken,  howl  and  set  howling,  which  is  of  the 
happiest  augury  for  tender  reconcilement,  on  the  terms  of  the 
gentleman  on  his  kneecap. 

"You've  been  doing  a  pretty  thing!"  she  said,  and  briefly 
she  named  her  house  and  half-an-hour,  and  flew.  Sir  Lukin 
was  left  to  admire  the  figure  of  the  horsewoman.  Eeally,  her 
figure  had  an  air  of  vindicating  her  successfully,  except  for 
the  poison  she  spat  at  Diana  Warwick.  And  what  pretty 
thing  had  he  been  doing?   He  reviewed  dozens  of  speculations 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  371 

until  the  impossibility  of  seizing  one  determined  him  to  go 
to  Mrs.  Fryar-Gunnett  at  the  end  of  the  half-hour — "Just 
to  see  what  these  women  have  to  say  for  themselves." 

Some  big  advance-drops  of  Eedworth's  thunderstorm  draw- 
ing gloomily  overhead  warned  him  to  be  quick  and  get  his 
horse  into  stables.  Dismounted,  the  sensational  man  was 
irresolute,  suspecting  a  female  trap.  But  curiosity,  combined 
with  the  instinctive  turning  of  his  nose  in  the  direction  of 
the  lady's  house,  led  him  thither,  to  an  accompaniment  of 
celestial  growls,  which  impressed  him,  judging  by  that 
naughty-girl  face  of  hers  and  the  woman's  tongue  she  had,  as 
a  likely  prelude  to  the  scene  to  come  below. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  PENULTIMATE:    SHOWING  A  FINAL  STRUGGLE  FOR 
LIBERTY   AND    RUN   INTO   HARNESS. 

The  prophet  of  the  storm  had  forgotten  his  prediction; 
which,  however,  was  of  small  concern  to  him,  apart  from  the 
ducking  he  received  midway  between  the  valley  and  the 
heights  of  Copsley,  whither  he  was  bound  on  a  mission  so 
serious,  that,  according  to  his  custom  in  such  instances,  he 
chose  to  take  counsel  of  his  active  legs — an  advisable  course 
when  the  brain  wants  clearing  and  the  heart  fortifying. 
Diana's  face  was  clearly  before  him  through  the  deluge;  now 
in  single  features,  the  dimple  running  from  her  mouth,  the 
dark  bright  eyes  and  cut  of  eyelids,  and  nostrils  alive  under 
their  lightning;  now  in  her  whole  radiant  smile,  or  musefully, 
nursing  a  thought.  Or  she  was  obscured,  and  he  felt  the  face. 
The  individuality  of  it  had  him  by  the  heart,  beyond  his 
powers  of  visioning.  On  his  arrival  he  stood  in  the  hall,  adrip 
like  one  of  the  trees  of  the  lawn,  laughing  at  Lady  Dunstane's 
anxious  exclamations.  His  portmanteau  had  come  and  he 
was  expected;  she  hurried  out  at  the  first  ringing  of  the  bell 
to  greet  and  reproach  him  for  walking  in  such  weather. 

"Diana  has  left  me,"  she  said,  when  he  reappeared  in  dry 
clothing.  "We  are  neighbors;  she  has  taken  cottage-lodgings 
at  Selshall,  about  an  hour's  walk — one  of  her  wild  dreams  of 
independence.    Are  you  disappointed?" 


372  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"I  am/'  Eedworth  confessed. 

Emma  colored.  "She  requires  an  immense  deal  of  humor- 
ing at  present.  The  fit  will  wear  off;  only  we  must  wait  for 
it.  Any  menace  of  her  p^-ecious  liberty  makes  her  prickly. 
She  is  passing  the  day  with  the  Pettigrews,  who  have  taken  a 
place  near  her  village  for  a  month.  She  promised  to  dine 
and  sleep  here  if  she  returned  in  time.    What  is  your  news?" 

"Nothing;  the  world  wags  on." 

"You  have  nothing  special  to  tell  her?" 

"Nothing,"  he  hummed;  "nothing,  I  fancy,  that  she  does 
not  know." 

"You  said  you  were  disappointed." 

"It's  always  a  pleasure  to  see  her." 

"Even  in  her  worst  moods  I  find  it  so.'' 

"Oh!  moods!"  quoth  Eedworth. 

"My  friend,  they  are  to  be  reckoned,  with  women." 

"Certainly;  what  I  meant  was,  that  I  don't  count  them 
against  women." 

"Good:  but  my  meaning  was  ...  I  think  I  remember 
your  once  comparing  them  and  the  weather;  and  you  spoke 
of  the  ^one  point  more  variable  in  women.'  You  may  fore- 
stall your  storms.  There  is  no  calculating  the  effect  of  a  few 
little  words  at  a  wrong  season." 

"With  women!  I  suppose  not.  I  have  no  pretension  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  sex." 

Emma  imagined  she  had  spoken  plainly  enough  if  he  had 
immediate  designs:  and  she  was  not  sure  of  that,  and  wished 
rather  to  shun  his  confidences  while  Tony  was  in  her  young 
widowhood,  reveling  in  her  joy  of  liberty.  By-and-by  was 
her  thought — perhaps  next  year.  She  dreaded  Tony's  refusal 
of  the  yoke,  and  her  iron-hardness  to  the  dearest  of  men  pro- 
posing it;  and,  moreover,  her  further  to  be  apprehended 
holding  to  the  refusal,  for  the  sake  of  consistency,  if  it  was 
once  uttered.  For  her  own  sake  she  shrank  from  hearing  in- 
tentions that,  distressing  the  good  man,  she  would  have  to 
discountenance.  His  candor  in  confessing  disappointment, 
and  his  open  face,  his  excellent  sense  too,  gave  her  some  assur- 
ance of  his  not  being  foolishly  impetuous.  After  he  had  read 
to  her  for  an  hour,  as  his  habit  was  on  evenings  and  wet  days, 
their  discussion  of  this  and  that  in  the  book  lulled  any  doubts 
she  had  of  his  prudence,  enough  to  render  it  even  a  dubious 
point  whether  she  might  be  speculating  upon   a   wealthy 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  373 

bachelor  in  the  old-fashioned  ultra-feminine  manner;  the 
which  she  so  abhorred  that  she  rejected  the  idea.  Conse- 
quently, Kedworth's  proposal  to  walk  down  to  the  valley  for 
Diana,  and  bring  her  back,  struck  her  as  natural  when  a 
shaft  of  western  sunshine  from  a  whitened  edge  of  raincloud 
struck  her  windows.  She  let  him  go  without  an  intimated 
monition  or  a  thought  of  one:  thinking  simply  that  her  Tony 
would  be  more  likely  to  come,  having  him  for  escort.  Those 
are  silly  women  who  are  always  imagining  designs  and  in- 
trigues and  future  palpitations  in  the  commonest  actions  of 
either  of  the  sex.  Emma  Dunstane  leaned  to  the  contrast 
between  herself  and  them. 

Danvers  was  at  the  house  about  sunset,  reporting  her  mis- 
tress to  be  on  her  way,  with  Mr.  Redworth.  The  maid's  tale 
of  the  dreadful  state  of  the  lanes  accounted  for  their  tardiness; 
and  besides,  the  sunset  had  been  magnificent.  Diana  knocked 
at  Emma's  bedroom  door,  to  say,  outside,  hurriedly  in  passing, 
how  splendid  the  sunset  had  been,  and  beg  for  an  extra  five 
minutes.  Taking  full  fifteen,  she  swam  into  the  drawing- 
room,  lively  with  kisses  on  Emma's  cheeks,  and  excuses,  refer- 
ring her  misconduct  in  being  late  to  the  seductions  of  "Sol" 
in  his  glory.  Redworth  said  he  had  rarely  seen  so  wonderful 
a  sunset.  The  result  of  their  unanimity  stirred  Emma's 
bosom  to  match-making  regrets;  and  the  walk  of  the  pair 
together,  alone  under  the  propitious  flaming  heavens,  appeared 
to  her  now  as  an  opportunity  lost.  From  sisterly  sympathy 
she  fancied  she  could  understand  Tony's  liberty-loving  reluc- 
tance: she  had  no  comprehension  of  the  backwardness  of 
the  man  beholding  the  dear  woman  handsomer  than  in  her 
maiden  or  her  married  time,  and  sprightlier  as  well.  She 
chatted  deliciously,  and  drew  Eed worth  to  talk  his  best  on 
his  choicer  subjects,  playing  over  them  like  a  fire-wisp,  deter- 
mined at  once  to  flounder  him  and  to  make  him  shine.  Her 
tender  esteem  for  the  man  was  transparent  through  it  all; 
and  Emma,  whose  evening  had  gone  happily  between  them, 
said  to  her,  in  their  privacy,  before  parting,  "You  seemed 
to  have  been  inspired  by  *SoV  niy  dear.  You  do  like  him, 
don't  you?" 

Diana  vowed  she  adored  him;  and,  with  a  face  of  laughter 
in  rosy  suffusion,  put  Sol  for  Eedworth,  Redworth  for  Sol; 
but,  watchful  of  Emma's  visage,  said  finally,  "If  you  mean 
the  mortal  man,  I  think  him  up  to  almost  all  your  hyper- 


374  DIANA   OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

boles — as  far  as  men  go;  and  he  departed  to  his  night's  rest, 
which  I  hops  will  be  good,  like  a  king.  Not  to  admire  him 
would  argue  me  senseless,  heartless.    I  do;  I  have  reason  to." 

"And  you  make  him  the  butt  of  your  ridicule,  Tony.'' 

"No;  I  said  *like  a  king,'  and  he  is  one.  He  has,  to  me, 
morally  the  grandeur  of  your  Sol  sinking,  Caesar  stabbed, 
Cato  on  the  sword-point.  He  is  Eoman,  Spartan,  Imperial; 
English,  if  you  like — the  pick  of  the  land.  It  is  an  honor 
to  call  him  friend,  and  I  do  trust  he  will  choose  the  pick 
among  us,  to  make  her  a  happy  woman — if  she's  for  running 
in  harness.     There,  I  can't  say  more." 

Emma  had  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  for  the  present. 

They  were  astonished  at  breakfast  by  seeing  Sir  Lukin 
ride  past  the  windows.  He  entered  with  the  veritable  appe- 
tite of  a  cavalier  who  had  ridden  from  London  fasting:  and 
why  he  had  come  at  that  early  hour  he  was  too  hungry  to 
explain.  The  ladies  retired  to  read  their  letters  by  the  morn- 
ing's post;  whereupon  Sir  Lukin  called  to  Redworth.  "I 
met  that  woman  in  the  Park  yesterday,  and  had  to  stand  a 
volley.  I  went  beating  about  London  for  you  all  the  after- 
noon and  evening.  She  swears  you  rated  her  like  a  scullery- 
wench,  and  threatened  to  ruin  Wroxeter.  Did  you  see  him? 
She  says  the  story's  true  in  one  particular — that  he  did  snatch 
a  kiss  and  got  mauled.  Not  so  much  to  pay  for  it!  But 
what  a  ruffian — eh?" 

"I  saw  him,"  said  Redworth.  "He's  one  of  the  new  set 
of  noblemen  who  take  bribes  to  serve  as  baits  for  transac- 
tions in  the  City.  They  help  to  the  ruin  of  their  order,  or 
are  signs  of  its  decay.  We  won't  judge  it  by  him.  He  favored 
me  witk  his  Vord  of  honor'  that  the  thing  you  heard  was 
entirely  a  misstatement,  and  so  forth — apologized,  I  suppose. 
He  mumbled  something." 

"A  thorough  cur!" 

"He  professed  his  readiness  to  fight  if  either  of  us  was 
not  contented." 

"He  spoke  to  the  wrong  man.  I've  half  a  mind  to  ride 
back  and  have  him  out  for  that  rascal  ^osculation' — and  the 
lady  unwilling! — and  she  a  young  one,  a  girl,  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  house!  By  Jove,  Redworth,  when  you  come 
to  consider  the  scoundrels  men  can  be  it  stirs  a  fellow's  bile. 
There's  a  deal  of  that  sort  of  villainy  going — and  succeeding 
sometimes!    He  deserves  the  whip  or  a  bullet." 


DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS.  375 

"A  sermon  from  Lukin  Dunstane  might  punish  him." 

"Oh!  I'm  a  sinner,  I  know.  But,  go  and  tell  one  woman 
of  another — and  that  a  lie!     That's  beyond  me." 

'The  gradations  of  the  deeps  are  perhaps  measurable  to 
those  who  are  in  them." 

"The  sermon's  at  me — pop!"  said  Sir  Lukin.  "By-the- 
way,  I'm  coming  round  to  think  Diana  Warwick  was  right 
when  she  used  to  jibe  at  me  for  throwing  up  my  commission. 
Idleness  is  the  devil — or  mother  of  him.  I  manage  my 
estates;  but  the  truth  is  it  doesn't  occupy  my  mind." 

"Your  time." 

"My  mind,  I  say." 

"Whichever  you  please." 

"You're  crusty  to-day,  Eedworth.  Let  me  tell  you,  I  think 
— and  hard,  too,  when  the  fit's  on  me.  However,  you  did  right 
in  stopping — I'll  own — a  piece  of  folly,  and  shutting  the 
mouths  of  those  two;  though  it  caused  me  to  come  in  for  a 
regular  drencher.  But  a  pretty  woman  in  a  right-down  terma- 
gant passion  is  good  theater;  because  it  can't  last,  at  that 
pace;  and  you're  sure  of  your  agreeable  tableau.  Not  that  I 
trust  her  ten  minutes  out  of  sight — or  any  woman,  except  one 
or  two — my  wife  and  Diana  Warwick.  Trust  those  you've 
tried,  old  boy.  Diana  Warwick  ought  to  be  taught  to  thank 
you;  though  I  don't  know  how  it's  to  be  done." 

"The  fact  of  it  is,"  Eedworth  frowned  and  rose,  "I've  done 
mischief.  I  had  no  right  to  mix  myself  in  it.  I'm  seldom 
caught  off  my  feet  by  an  impulse;  but  I  was.  I  took  the 
fever  from  you." 

He  squared  his  figure  at  the  window,  and  looked  up  on  a 
driving  sky. 

"Come,  let's  play  open  cards,  Tom  Eedworth,''  said  Sir 
Lukin,  leaving  the  table  and  joining  his  friend  by  the  window. 
"You  moral  men  are  doomed  to  be  marrying  men,  alvv^ays; 
and  quite  right.  Not  that  one  doesn't  hear  a  roundabout 
thing  or  two  about  you — no  harm.  Very  much  the  contrary: 
— as  the  world  goes.  But  you're  the  man  to  marry  a  wife; 
and,  if  I  guess  the  lady,  she's  a  sensible  girl  and  won't  be 
jealous.    I'd  swear  she  only  waits  for  asking." 

"Then  you  don't  guess  the  lady,"  said  Eedworth. 

"Mary  Paynham?" 

The  desperate  half-laugh  greeting  the  name  convinced  more 
than  a  dozen  denials. 


376  DIANA   OF   THE   CROSSWAYS. 

Sir  Liikin  kept  edging  round  for  a  full  view  of  the  friend 
who  shunned  inspection.  *^But  is  it?  .  .  .  can  it  be?  it 
must  be  after  all!  .  .  .  why,  of  course  it  is!  But  the 
thing  staring  us  in  the  face  is  just  what  we  never  see.  Just 
the  husband  for  her! — and  she's  the  wife?  Why,  Diana  War- 
wick's the  very  woman,  of  course!  I  remember  I  used  to 
think  so  before  she  was  free  to  wed." 

"She  is  not  of  that  opinion."  Redworth  blew  a  heavy 
breath,  and  it  should  be  chronicled  as  a  sigh;  but  it  was 
hugely  masculine. 

''Because  you  didn't  attack  the  moment  she  was  free; 
that's  what  upset  my  calculations,"  the  sagacious  gentleman 
continued,  for  a  vindication  of  his  acuteness:  then  seizing 
the  reply,  "Refuses?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  the  man 
to  take  a  refusal?  and  from  a  green  widow  in  the  blush? 
Did  you  see  her  cheeks  when  she  was  peeping  at  the  letter 
in  her  hand?  She  colors  at  half  a  word — takes  the  lift  of 
a  linger  for  Hymen  coming.  And  lots  of  fellows  are  after, 
her;  I  know  it  from  Emmy.  But  you're  not  the  man  to  be 
refused.  You're  her  friend — her  champion.  That  woman 
Fr^^ar-Gunnett  Avould  have  it  you  were  the  favored  lover, 
and  sneered  at  my  talk  of  old  friendship.  Women  are  always 
down  dead  on  the  facts;  can't  put  them  off  a  scent!" 

"There's  the  mischief!"  Redworth  blew  again.  "I  had 
no  right  to  be  championing  Mrs.  Warwick's  name.  Or  the 
world  won't  give  it,  at  all  events.  I'm  a  blundering  donkey. 
Yes,  she  wishes  to  keep  her  liberty.  And,  upon  my  soul, 
I'm  in  love  with  everything  she  wishes!    I've  got  the  habit." 

"Habit  be  hanged!"  cried  Sir  Lukin.  "You're  in  love 
with  the  woman.  I  know  a  little  more  of  you  now,  Mr.  Tom. 
You're  a  fellow  in  earnest  about  what  you  do.  You're  feeling 
it  now  on  the  rack,  by  Heaven!  though  you  keep  a  bold  face. 
Did  she  speak  positively? — sort  of  feminine  of  'you're  the 
monster,  not  the  man?'  or  measured  little  doctor's  dose  of 
pity? — worse  sign!    You're  not  going?" 

"If  you'll  drive  me  down  in  half-an-hour,"  said  Redworth. 

"Give  me  an  hour,"  Sir  Lukin  replied,  and  went  straight 
to  his  wife's  blue-room. 

Diana  was  roused  from  a  meditation  on  a  letter  she  held 
by  the  entrance  of  Emma  in  her  bed-chamber,  to  whom  she 
said,  "I  have  here  the  very  craziest  bit  of  writing! — but  what 
is  disturbing  you,  dear?" 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  377 

Emma  sat  beside  her,  panting  and  composing  her  lips  to 
speak.  "Do  you  love  me?  I  throw  policy  to  the  winds,  if 
only  I  can  batter  at  you  for  your  heart  and  find  it!  Tony, 
do  you  love  me?  But  don't  answer:  give  me  your  hand.  You 
have  rejected  him?" 

"He  has  told  you?" 

"No.  He  is  not  the  man  to  cry  out  for  a  wound.  He 
heard  in  London — Lukin  has  had  the  courage  to  tell  me, 
after  his  fashion — Tom  Redworth  heard  an  old  story,  coming 
from  one  of  the  baser  kind  of  women — grossly  false,  he  knew. 
I  mention  only  Lord  Wroxeter  and  Lockton.  He  went  to 
man  and  woman  both,  and  had  it  refuted,  and  stopped  their 
tongues,  on  peril;  as  he  of  all  men  is  able  to  do  when  he 
wills  it." 

Observing  the  quick  change  in  Tony's  eyes,  Emma  ex- 
claimed, "How  you  looked  disdain  when  you  asked  whether 
he  had  told  me!  But  why  are  you  the  handsome  tigress  to 
him,  of  all  men  living!  The  dear  fellow,  dear  to  me  at 
least!  since  the  day  he  first  saw  you,  has  worshiped  you  and 
striven  to  serve  you: — and  harder  than  any  Scriptural  service 
to  have  the  beloved  woman  to  wife.  I  know  nothing  to  com- 
pare with  it,  for  he  is  a  man  of  warmth.  He  is  one  of  those 
rare  men  of  honor  who  can  command  their  passion;  who  ven- 
erate when  they  love:  and  those  are  the  men  that  women 
select  for  punishment!  Yes,  you!  It  is  to  the  woman  he  loves 
that  he  cannot  show  himself  as  he  is,  because  he  is  at  her 
feet.  You  have  managed  to  stamp  your  spirit  on  him;  and,  as 
a  consequence,  he  defends  you  now,  for  flinging  him  off.  And 
now  his  chief  regret  is  that  he  has  caused  his  name  to  be 
coupled  with  yours.  I  suppose  he  had  some  poor  hope,  seeing 
you  free.  Or  else  the  impulse  to  protect  the  woman  of  his 
heart  and  soul  was  too  strong.  I  have  seen  what  he  suffered, 
years  back,  at  the  news  of  your  engagement." 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't!"  cried  Tony,  tears  running 
over,  and  her  dream  of  freedom,  her  visions  of  romance, 
drowning. 

"It  was  like  the  snapping  of  the  branch  of  an  oak  when 
the  trunk  stands  firm,"  Emma  resumed,  in  her  desire  to 
scourge  as  well  as  to  soften.  "But  similes  applied  to  him 
will  strike  you  as  incongruous."  Tony  swayed  her  body,  for 
a  negative,  very  girlishly  and  consciously.  "He  probably 
did  not  woo  you  in  a  poetic  style,  or  the  courtly  by  prescrip- 


378  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

tion.'^  Again  Tony  swayed;  she  had  to  Img  herself  under 
the  stripes,  and  felt  as  if  alone  at  sea,  with  her  dear  heavens 
pelting.  "Yon  have  sneered  at  him  for  his  calculating — to 
his  face:  and  it  was  when  he  was  comparatively  poor  that  he 
calcnlated — to  his  cost! — that  he  dared  not  ask  yon  to  marry 
a  man  who  could  not  offer  you  a  tithe  of  what  he  considered 
lit  for  the  peerless  woman.  Peerless,  I  admit,  there  he  was 
not  wrong.  But  if  he  had  valued  3^ou  half  a  grain  less  he 
might  have  won  you.  You  talk  much  of  chivalry;  you  con- 
ceive a  superhuman  ideal,  to  which  you  fit  a  very  indifferent 
wooden  model,  while  the  man  of  all  the  world  the  most 
chivalrous!  .  .  .  He  is  a  man  quite  other  from  what  you 
think  him:  anything  hut  a  'Cuthhert  Bering'  or  a  *Man  of 
Two  Minds.'  He  was  in  the  drawing-room  below,  on  the  day 
I  received  your  last  maiden  letter  from  The  Crossways — now 
his  property,  in  the  hope  of  making  it  yours." 

"I  behaved  abominably  there!"  interposed  Tony,  with  a 
gasp. 

"Let  it  pass.  At  any  rate,  that  was  the  prick  of  a  needle, 
not  the  blow  of  a  sword." 

"But  marriage,  dear  Emmy!  marriage!  Is  marriage  to 
be  the  end  of  me  ?" 

"What  amazing  apotheosis  have  you  in  prospect?  x\nd 
are  you  steering  so  particularly  well  by  yourself?" 

"Miserably!  But  I  can  dream.  And  the  thought  of  a 
husband  cuts  me  from  any  dreaming.  It's  all  dead  flat  earth 
at  once!" 

"Would  you  have  rejected  him  when  vou  were  a  girl?" 

"I  thinlc  so." 

"The  superior  merits  of  another?     .     .     ." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,  no!  I  might  have  accepted  him:  and  I 
might  not  have  made  him  happy.  I  wanted  a  hero,  and  the 
jeweled  garb  and  the  feather  did  not  suit  him." 

"No;  he  is  not  that  description  of  lay  figure.  You  have 
dressed  it,  and  gemmed  it,  and — ^made  your  discovery.  Here 
is  a  true  man;  and  if  you  can  find  me  any  of  your  heroes  to 
match  him  I  will  thank  you.  He  came  on  the  day  I  speak 
of,  to  consult  me  as  to  whether,  with  the  income  he  then 
had  .  .  .  Well,  I  had  to  tell  him  yon  were  engaged.  The 
man  has  never  wavered  in  his  love  of  you  since  that  day.  He 
has  had  to  bear  something." 

This  was  an  electrical  bolt  into  Tony's  bosom,  shaking  her 


DIANA    OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  379 

from  self-pity  and  shame  to  remorseful  pity  of  the  suffering 
lover;  and  the  tears  ran  in  streams  as  she  said,  "He  bore  it, 
Emmy,  he  bore  it."  She  sobbed  out,  "And  he  ^ent  on  huild- 
ing  a  fortune  and  batting!  Whatever  he  undertakes  he  does 
perfectly — approve  of  the  pattern  or  not.  Oh!  I  have  no 
doubt  he  had  his  nest  of  wishes  piping  to  him  all  the  while: 
only  it  seems  quaint,  dear,  quaint,  and  against  everything 
we've  been  reading  of  lovers!  Love  was  his  bread  and  butter!" 
Her  dark  eyes  showered.  "And  to  tell  you  what  you  do  not 
know  of  him,  his  way  of  making  love  is  really,"  she  sobbed, 
"pretty.  It  ...  it  took  me  by  surprise;  I  was  expecting 
a  bellow  and  an  assault  of  horns;  and  if,  dear — ^you  will  say, 
what  boarding-school  girl  have  you  got  with  you!  and  I  feel 
myself  getting  childish — if  Sol  in  his  glory  had  not  been  so 
m  .  .  .  majestically  m  .  .  .  magnificent,  nor  seemed 
to  show  me  the  king  .  .  .  kingdom  of  my  dreams,  I 
might  have  stammered  the  opposite  word  to  the  one  he 
heard.  Last  night,  when  he  took  my  hand  kindly  before 
going  to  bed,  I  had  a  fit  for  dropping  on  my  knees  to  him. 
I  saw  him  bleed,  and  he  held  himself  right  royally.  I  told 
you  he  did — Sol  in  his  moral  grandeur!  How  inlhiitely  above 
the  physical  monarch — is  he  not,  Emmy?  What  one  dislikes 
is,  the  devotion  of  all  that  grandeur  to  win  a  widow.  It 
should  be  a  maiden  princess.  You  feel  it  so,  T  am  sure.  And 
here  am  I,  as  if  a  maiden  princess  were  I,  demanding  roman- 
tic accessories  of  rubious  vapor  in  the  man  condescending 
to  implore  the  widow  to  wed  him.  But,  tell  me,  does  he  know 
everything  of  his  widow — everything?  I  shall  not  have 
to  go  through  the  frightful  chapter?" 

"He  is  a  man  with  his  eyes  awake;  he  knows  as  much  as 
any  husband  could  require  to  know,"  said  Emma;  adding, 
"My  darling,  he  trusts  you.  It  is  the  soul  of  the  man  that 
loves  you,  as  it  is  mine.  You  will  not  tease  him?  Promise 
me.    Give  yourself  frankly.    You  see  it  clearly  before  you." 

"I  see  compulsion,  my  dear.  What  I  see  is  a  regiment 
of  proverbs,  bearing  placards  instead  of  guns,  and  each  one 
a  taunt  at  women,  especially  at  widows.  They  march;  they 
form  square;  they  inclose  me  in  the  middle,  and  I  have  their 
inscriptions  to  digest.  Bead  that  crazy  letter  from  Mary 
Paynham  while  I  am  putting  on  my  bonnet.  I  perceive  I 
have  been  crying  like  a  raw  creature  in  her  teens.    I  don't 


380  DIANA   OB^   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

know  myself.  An  advantage  of  the  darker  complexions  is  our 
speedier  concealment  of  the  traces." 

Emma  read  Miss  Paynham's  letter,  and  returned  it  with 
the  comment,  "Utterly  crazy."  Tony  said:  "Is  it  not?  I 
am  to  'pause  before  1  trifle  with  a  noble  heart  too  long.'  She 
is  'to  have  her  happiness  in  the  constant  prayer  for  ours'; 
and  she  is  'warned  by  one  of  those  intimations,  never  faihng 
her,  that  he  runs  a  serious  danger.'  It  reads  like  a  Wizard's 
Ahnanac.  And  here:  'Homogeneity  of  sentiment  the  most 
perfect  is  unable  to  contend  with  the  fatal  charm  which,  exer- 
cised by  an  indifferent  person,  must  be  ascribed  to  original 
predestination.'  She  should  be  under  the  wing  of  Lady 
Wathin.  There  is  the  mother  for  such  chicks!  But  I'll  own 
to  you,  Emmy,  that,  after  the  perusal,  I  did  ask  myself  a 
question  as  to  my  likeness  of  late  to  the  writer.  I  have 
driveled  ...  I  was  shuddering  over  it  when  you  came 
in.  I  have  sentimentalized  up  to  thin  smoke.  And  she  tells 
the  truth  when  she  says  I  am  not  to  'count  social  cleverness' — 
she  means  volubility — 'as  a  warrant  for  domineering  a  capa- 
cious intelligence' — because  of  the  gentleman's  modesty. 
Agreed:  I  have  done  it:  I  am  contrite.  I  am  going  into 
slavery  to  make  amends  for  presumption.  Banality,  thy  name 
is  marriage!" 

"Your  business  is  to  accept  life  as  we  have  it,"  said  Emma; 
and  Tony  shrugged.  She  was  precipitate  in  going  forth  to  her 
commonplace  fate,  and  scarcely  looked  at  the  man  requested 
by  Emma  to  escort  her  to  her  cottage.  After  their  departure, 
Emma  fell  into  laughter  at  the  last  words  with  the  kiss  of 
her  cheeks,  "Here  goes  old  Ireland!"  But,  from  her  look 
and  from  what  she  had  said  upstairs,  Emma  could  believe 
that  the  singular  sprite  of  girlishness  invading  and  governing 
her  latterly  had  yielded  place  to  the  woman  she  loved. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

NUPTIAL  CHAPTER;    AND  OF  HOW  A  BARELY  WILLING 

WOMAN  WAS  LED  TO  BLOOM  WITH  THE 

NUPTIAL  SENTIMENT. 

Emma  watched  them  on  their  way  through  the  park  till 
they  rounded  the  beechwood,  talking,  it  could  be  surmised, 
of  ordinary  matters;   the  face  of  the  gentleman  turning  at 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  381 

times  to  his  companion's,  which  steadily  fronted  tiie  gale. 
She  left  the  ensuing  to  a  prayer  for  their  good  direction,  with 
a  chuckle  at  Tony's  evident  feeling  of  a  ludicrous  posture, 
and  the  desperate  rush  of  her  agile  limhs  to  have  it  over.  But 
her  prayer  throbbed  almost  to  a  supplication  that  the  wrong 
done  to  her  beloved  by  Dacier — the  wound  to  her  own  sisterly 
pride  rankling  as  an  injury  to  her  sex — might  be  canceled 
through  the  union  of  the  woman  noble  in  the  sight  of  God 
with  a  more  manlike  man. 

Meanwhile  the  feet  of  the  couple  were  going  faster  than 
their  heads  to  the  end  of  the  journey.  Diana  knew  she 
would  have  to  hoist  the  signal — and  how?  The  prospect  was 
dumbfounding.  She  had  to  think  of  appeasing  her  Emma. 
Eedworth,  for  his  part,  actually  supposed  she  had  accepted 
his  escorting  in  proof  of  the  plain  friendship  offered  him 
over-night. 

"What  do  your  ^birds'  do  in  weather  like  this?"  she  said. 

"Cling  to  their  perches  and  wait  patiently.  It's  the  bad 
time  with  them  when  you  don't  hear  them  chirp." 

"Of  course  you  foretold  the  gale?" 

"Oh,  well,  it  did  not  require  a  shepherd  or  a  skipper  for 
that." 

"Your  grand  gift  will  be  useful  to  a  yachtsman." 

"You  like  yachting.  When  I  have  tried  my  new  schooner 
in  the  Channel  she  is  at  your  command  for  as  long  as  you 
and  Lady  Dunstane  please." 

"So  you  acknowledge  that  birds — things  of  nature — have 
their  bad  time?" 

"They  profit  ultimately  by  the  deluge  and  the  wreck.  Noth- 
ing on  earth  is  "^tucked-up'  in  perpetuity." 

"Except  the  dead.  But  why  should  the  schooner  be  at  our 
command?" 

"I  shall  be  in  Ireland." 

He  could  not  have  said  sweeter  to  her  ears  or  more  touching. 

"We  shall  hardly  feel  safe  without  the  weatherwi&e  on 
board." 

"You  may  count  on  my  man  Barnes;  I  have  proved  him. 
He  is  up  to  his  work  even  when  he's  bilious:  only,  in  that 
case,  occurring  about  once  a  fortnight,  you  must  leave  him 
to  fight  it  out  with  the  elements." 

"I  rather  like  men  of  action  to  have  a  temper." 

**I  can't  say  much  for  a  bilious  temper." 


382  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

The  weather  to-day  really  seemed  of  that  kind,  she  re- 
marked. He  assented,  in  the  shrug  manner — not  to  dissent: 
she  might  say  what  she  would.  He  helped  nowhere  to  a 
lead;  and  so  quick  are  the  changes  of  mood  at  such  moments 
that  she  was  now  far  from  him  under  the  failure  of  an  effort 
to  come  near.    But  thoughts  of  Emma  pressed. 

"The  name  of  the  new  schooner?  Her  name  is  her  picture 
to  me." 

"I  wanted  you  to  christen  her." 

"Launched  without  a  name?" 

"I  took  a  liberty." 

Needless  to  ask,  but  she  did.    "With  whom?" 

"I. named  her  Diana." 

"May  the  goddess  of  the  silver  bow  and  crescent  protect 
her!     To  me  the  name  is  ominous  of  mischance." 

"I  would  commit  my  fortunes  and  life  .  .  .!"  He 
checked  his  tongue,  ejaculating,  "Omens!" 

She  had  veered  straight  away  from  her  romantic  aspira- 
tions to  the  blunt  extreme  of  thinking  that  a  widow  should 
be  wooed  in  unornamented  matter-of-fact,  as  she  is  wedded, 
with  a  "Wilt  thou?"  and  "I  will,"  and  no  decorative  illusions. 
Downright,  for  the  unpoetic  creature,  if  you  please!  So 
she  rejected  the  accompaniment  of  the  silver  goddess  and  high 
seas  for  an  introduction  of  the  crisis. 

"This  would  be  a  thunderer  on  our  coasts.  I  had  a  trial 
of  my  sailing  powers  in  the  Mediterranean." 

As  she  said  it  her  musings  on  him  then,  with  the  contrast 
of  her  position  toward  him  now,  fierily  brushed  her  cheeks; 
and  she  wished  him  the  man  to  make  one  snatch  at  her  poor 
last  small  butterfly  bit  of  freedom,  so  that  she  might  t^ud- 
denly  feel  in  haven,  at  peace  with  her  expectant  Emma.  He 
could  have  seen  the  inviting  consciousness,  but  he  was  ab- 
surdly watchful  lest  the  flying  sprays  of  border  trees  should 
strike  her.  He  mentioned  his  fear,  and  it  became  an  excuse 
for  her  seeking  protection  of  her  veil.  "It  is  our  natural 
guardian,"  she  said. 

"Not  much  against  timber,"  said  he. 

The  worthy  creature's  anxiety  was  of  the  pattern  of  cava- 
liers escorting  dames — an  exaggeration  of  honest  zeal;  a 
present  example  of  clownish  goodness,  it  might  seem;  until 
entering  the  larch  and  firwood  along  the  beaten  heights  there 
was  a  rocking  and  straining  of  the  shallow-rooted  trees  in  a 


DIANA   OF   THE    CROSSWAYS.  383 

tremendous  gust  that  quite  pardoned  liim  for  curving  his 
arm  in  a  hoop  about  her  and  holding  a  shoulder  in  front.  The 
veil  did  her  positive  service. 

He  was  honorably  scrupulous  not  to  presume.  A  right  good 
unimpulsive  gentleman:  the  same  that  she  had  always  taken 
him  for  and  liked. 

"These  firs  are  not  taproots/'  he  observed,  by  way  of  apol- 
ogy. 

Her  dress  volumed  and  her  ribands  rattled  and  chirruped 
on  the  verge  of  the  slope.  "I  will  take  your  arm  here,"  she 
said. 

Eedworth  received  the  little  hand,  saying,  "Lean  to  me." 

They  descended  upon  great  surges  of  wind  piping  and 
driving  every  light  surface-atom  as  foam;  and  they  blinked 
and  shook;  even  the  man  was  shaken.  But  their  arms  were 
interlinked  and  they  grappled;  the  battering  enemy  made 
them  one.  It  might  mean  nothing,  or  everj^thing:  to  him  it 
meant  the  sheer  blissful  instant. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  he  said,  "It's  harder  to  keep  to  the 
terms  of  yesterday." 

"What  were  they?"  said  she,  and  took  his  breath  more 
than  the  fury  of  the  storm  had  done. 

"Eaise  the  veil,  I  beg." 

"Widows  do  not  wear  it." 

The  look  revealed  to  him  was  a  fugitive  of  the  wilds,  no 
longer  the  glittering  shooter  of  arrows. 

"Have  you?  .  .  ."  changed  to  me,  was  the  signification 
understood.     "Can  you? — for  life!    Do  you  think  you  can?" 

His  poverty  in  the  pleading  language  melted  her.  "What 
I  cannot  do,  my  best  of  friends,  is  to  submit  to  be  seated  on 
a  throne,  with  you  petitioning.  Yes,  as  far  as  concerns  this 
hand  of  mine,  if  you  hold  it  worthy  of  you.  We  will  speak 
of  that.  Now  tell  me  the  name  of  the  weed  trailing  along 
the  hedge  there." 

He  knew  it  well —  a  common  hedgerow  weed;  but  the  placid 
diversion  baffled  him.    It  was  clematis,  he  said. 

"It  drags  in  the  dust  when  it  has  no  firm  arm  to  cling  to. 
I  passed  it  beside  you  yesterday  with  a  flaunting  mind  and 
not  a  suspicion  of  a  likeness.  How  foolish  I  was!  I  could 
volubly  sermonize;  only  it  should  be  a  young  maid  to  listen. 
Forgive  me  the  yesterday." 

"You  have  never  to  ask.  You  withdraw  your  hand — ^was  I 
rough?" 


384  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"No/'  she  smiled  demurely;  "it  must  get  used  to  the 
shackles:  but  my  cottage  is  in  sight.  I  have  a  growing  love 
for  the  place.  We  will  enter  it  like  plain  people — if  you 
think  of  coming  in.'' 

As  she  said  it  she  had  a  slight  shock  of  cowering  under 
eyes  tolerably  hawkish  in  their  male  glitter;  but  her  cool- 
ness was  not  disturbed,  and  without  any  apprehensions  she 
reflected  on  what  has  been  written  of  the  silly  division  and 
war  of  the  sexes: — which  two  might  surely  enter  on  an  en- 
gagement to  live  together  amiably,  unvexed  by  that  bar- 
barous old  fowl  and  falcon  interlude.  Cool  herself,  she  imag- 
ined the  same  of  him,  having  good  grounds  for  the  delusion; 
so  they  passed  through  the  cottage-garden  and  beneath  the 
low  porchway  into  her  little  sitting-room,  where  she  was  pro- 
ceeding to  speak  composedly  of  her  preference  for  cottages 
while  untying  her  bonnet-strings: — "If  I  had  begun  my  life 
in  a  cottage!" — when  really  a  big  storm-wave  caught  her  from 
shore  and  whirled  her  to  midsea,  out  of  every  sensibility  but 
the  swimming  one  of  her  loss  of  self  in  the  man. 

"You  would  not  have  been  here!"  was  all  he  said.  She 
was  up  at  his  heart,  fast-locked,  undergoing  a  change  greater 
than  the  sea  works;  her  thoughts  one  blush,  her  brain  a  fire- 
fount.    This  was  not  like  being  seated  on  a  throne. 

"There,"  said  he,  loosening  his  hug,  "now  you  belong  to 
me!  I  know  you  from  head  to  foot.  After  that,  my  darling, 
I  could  leave  you  for  years  and  call  you  wife,  and  be  sure  of 
you.  I  could  swear  it  for  you — my  life  on  it!  That's  what  I 
think  of  you.  Don't  wonder  that  I  took  my  chance — the 
first: — I  have  waited!" 

Truer  word  was  never  uttered,  she  owned,  coming  into  some 
harmony  with  man's  kiss  on  her  mouth:  the  man  violently 
metamorphosed  to  a  stranger  acting  on  rights  she  had  given 
him.  And  who  was  she  to  dream  of  denying  them?  Not  an 
idea  in  her  head!  Bound  verily  to  be  thankful  for  such  love, 
on  hearing  that  it  dated  from  the  night  in  Ireland.  .  .  "So 
in  love  with  you  that,  on  my  soul,  your  happiness  was  my  mar- 
row— whatever  you  wished;  anything  you  chose.  It's  reck- 
oned a  fool's  part.  No,  it's  love:  the  love  of  a  woman — ^the 
one  woman!  I  was  like  the  hand  of  a  clock  to  the  springs.  I 
taught  this  old  watch-dog  of  a  heart  to  keep  guard  and  bury 
the  bones  you  tossed  him." 

"Ignorantly,  admit,"  said  she,  and  could  have  bitten  her 
tongue  for  the  empty  words  that  provoked,  "Would  you  have 


DIANA   OP   THE   CROSSWAYS.  385 

flnng  hkn  nothing?''  and  caused  a  lowering  of  her  eye-lids 
and  shamed  glimpses  of  recollections.  '^I  hear  you  have  again 
been  defending  me.  I  told  you,  I  think,  I  wished  I  had  begun 
my  girl's  life  in  a  cottage.  All  that  I  have  had  to  endure! 
.  .  .  .  or  so  it  seems  to  me:  it  may  be  my  way  of  excus- 
ing myself: — I  know  my  cunning  in  that  peculiar  art.  I  would 
take  my  chance  of  mixing  among  the  highest  and  the  bright- 
est." 

"Naturally." 

"Culpably." 

"It  brings  you  to  me." 

"Through  a  muddy  channel." 

"Your  husband  has  full  faith  in  you,  my  own." 

"The  faith  has  to  be  summoned  and  is  buffeted,  as  we  were 
just  now  on  the  hill.  I  wish  he  had  taken  me  from  a  cot- 
tage." 

"You  pushed  for  the  best  society,  like  a  fish  to  its  native 
sea." 

"Pray  say,  a  salmon  to  the  riverheads." 

"Better,"  Eedworth  laughed  joyfully,  between  admiration 
of  the  tongue  that  always  outflew  him,  and  of  the  face  he  red- 
dened. 

By  degrees  her  apter  and  neater  terms  of  speech  helped 
her  to  a  notion  of  regaining  some  steps  of  her  sunken  ascen- 
dancy, under  the  weight  of  the  novel  masculine  pressure  on 
her  throbbing  blood;  and  when  he  bent  to  her  to  take  her 
lord's  farewell  of  her,  after  agreeing  to  go  and  delight  Emma 
with  a  message,  her  submission  and  her  personal  pride  were 
not  so  much  at  variance:  perhaps  because  her  buzzing  head 
had  no  ideas.  "Tell  Emma  you  have  undertaken  to  wash  the 
blackamoor  as  white  as  she  can  be,"  she  said  perversely,  in  her 
spite  at  herself  for  not  coming,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  dawn  to 
the  man  she  could  consent  to  wed:  and  he  replied,  "I  shall 
tell  her  my  dark  girl  pleads  for  a  fortnight's  grace  before  she 
and  I  set  sail  for  the  west  coast  of  Ireland:"  conjuring  a  pic- 
ture that  checked  any  protest  against  the  shortness  of  time — 
and  Emma  would  surely  be  his  ally.  They  talked  of  the  Dub- 
lin ball — painfully  to  some  of  her  thoughts.  But  Eedworth 
kissed  that  distant  brilliant  night  as  freshly  as  if  no  belaboring 
years  rolled  in  the  chasm:  which  led  her  to  conceive  partly, 
and  wonderingly,  the  nature  of  a  strong  man's  passion;  and  it 
subjugated  the  woman  knowing  of  a  contrast.  The  smart  of 
the  blow  dealt  her  by  hinx  who  had  fired  the  passion  in  her  be- 


L 

386  DIANA   OP   THE    CROSSWAYS. 

came  a  burning  regret  for  the  loss  of  that  fair  fame  she  had 
sacrificed  to  him,  and  could  not  bring  to  her  truer  lover — 
though  it  was  but  the  outer  view  of  herself — the  world's  view; 
only  she  was  generous  and  of  honest  conscience,  and  but  for 
the  sake  of  the  truer  lover  she  would  mentally  have  allowed 
the  world  to  la^h  and  abuse  her,  without  a  plea  of  material 
purity.  Could  it  be  named?  The  naming  of  it  in  her  clear 
mind  lessened  it  to  accidental: — By  good  fortune  she  was  no 
worse!  She  said  to  Eedworth  when  finally  dismissing  him,  "I 
bring  no  real  disgrace  to  you,  my  friend."  To  have  had  this 
sharp  spiritual  battle  at  such  a  time  was  proof  of  honest  con- 
science, rarer  among  women,  as  the  world  has  fashioned  them 
yet,  than  the  purity  demanded  of  them.  His  answer,  "You 
are  my  wife!"  rang  in  her  hearing. 

When  she  sat  a^ne  at  last  she  was  incapable,  despite  her 
nature's  imaginative  leap  to  brightness,  of  choosing  any  sin- 
gle period,  auspicious  or  luminous  or  flattering,  since  the  hour 
of  her  first  meeting  this  man,  rather  than  the  gray  light  he 
cast  on  her,  promising  helpfulness,  and  inspiring  a  belief  in 
her  capacity  to  help.  JSTot  the  Salvatore  high  raptures  nor  the 
nights  of  social  applause  could  appear  preferable — she  strained 
her  shattered  wits  to  try  them.  As  for  her  superlunary  sphere 
it  was  in  fragments;  and  she  mused  on  the  singularity,  con- 
sidering that  she  was  not  deeply  enamored.  Was  she  so  at  all? 
The  question  drove  her  to  embrace  the  dignity  of  being  rea- 
sonable— under  Emma's  guidance.  For  she  did  not  stand 
firmly  alone;  her  story  confessed  it.  Marriage  might  be  the 
archway  to  the  road  of  good  service,  even  as  our  passage 
through  the  flesh  may  lead  to  the  better  state.  She  had 
thoughts  of  the  kind,  and  had  them  while  encouraging  her- 
self to  deplore  the  adieu  to  her  little  musk-scented  sitting- 
room,  where  a  modest  freedom  breathed,  and  her  individual- 
ity had  seemed  pointing  to  a  straighter  growth. 

She  nodded  subsequently  to  the  truth  of  her  happy  Em- 
ma's remark,  "You  were  created  for  the  world,  Tony."  A 
woman  of  blood  and  imagination  in  the  warring  world,  with- 
out a  mate  whom  she  can  revere,  subscribes  to  a  likeness  with 
those  independent  minor  realms  between  greedy  mighty 
neighbors,  which  conspire  and  undermine  when  they  do  not 
openly  threaten  to  devour.  So,  then,  this  union,  the  return 
to  the  wedding  yoke,  received  sanction  of  graytoned  reason. 
She  was  not  enamored:  she  could  say  it  to  herself.  She  had, 
however,  been  surprised,  both  by  the  man  and  her  unprotest- 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  387 

ing  submission;  surprised  and  warmed,  unaccountably 
warmed.  Clearness  of  mind  in  the  woman  chaste  by  nature, 
however  little  ignorant  it  allowed  her  to  be  in  the  general  re- 
view of  herself,  could  not  compass  the  immediately  personal, 
with  its  acknowledgment  of  her  subserviency  to  touch  and 
pressure — and  more,  stranger,  her  readiness  to  kindle.  She 
left  it  unexplained.  Unconsciously  the  image  of  Dacier  was 
effaced.  Looking  backward,  her  heart  was  moved  to  her  long- 
constant  lover  with  most  pitying  tender  wonderment — stormy 
man,  as  her  threatened  senses  told  her  that  he  was.  Looking 
at  him,  she  had  to  mask  her  being  abashed  and  mastered. 
And  looking  forward,  her  soul  fell  in  prayer  for  this  true 
man^s  never  repenting  of  his  choice.  Sure  of  her  now,  Mr. 
Thomas  Eedworth  had  returned  to  the  station  of  the  courtier, 
and  her  feminine  sovereignty  was  not  ruffled  to  make  her  feel 
too  feminine.  Another  revelation  was  his  playful  talk  when 
they  were  more  closely  intimate.  He  had  his  humor  as  well  as 
his  hearty  relish  of  hers. 

'•If  all  Englishmen  were  like  him!"  she  chimed  with  Emma 
Dunstane's  eulogies,  under  the  influence. 

''My  dear,''  the  latter  replied,  *'we  should  simply  march 
over  the  Eour  Quarters  and  be  blessed  by  the  nations!  Only, 
avoid  your  trick  of  dashing  headlong  to  the  other  extreme. 
He  has  his  faults." 

"Tell  me  of  them,"  Diana  cooed  for  an  answer.  "Do!  I 
want  the  flavor.  A  girl  would  be  satisfied  with  superhuman 
excellence.    A  widow  asks  for  feature." 

"To  my  thinking  the  case  is,  that  if  it  is  a  widow  who  sees 
the  superhuman  excellence  in  a  man  she  m_ay  be  very  well 
contented  to  cross  the  bridge  with  him,"  rejoined  Emma. 

"Suppose  the  bridge  to  break,  and  for  her  to  fall  into  the 
water,  he  rescuing  her — then,  perhaps!" 

"But  it  has  been  happening!" 

"But  piecemeal,  in  extension,  so  slowly.  I  go  to  him  a 
derelict,  bearing  a  story  of  the  sea;  empty  of  ideas.  I  remem- 
ber sailing  out  of  harbor  passably  well  freighted  for  com- 
merce." 

"When  Tom  Redw^orth  has  had  command  of  the  'derelict' 
a  week  I  should  like  to  see  her!" 

The  mention  of  that  positive  captaincy  drowned  Diana  in 
morning  colors.  She  was  dominated,  physically  and  moral- 
ly, submissively  too.  What  she  craved,  in  the  absence  of  the 
public  whiteness  which  could  have  caused  her  to  rejoice  in 


388  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

herself  as  a  noble  gift,  was  the  spring  of  enthusiasm.  Emma 
touched  a  quivering  chord  of  pride  with  her  hint  at  the  good 
augury,  and  foreshadowing  of  the  larger  union,  in  the  Irish- 
woman's bestowal  of  her  hand  on  the  open-minded  English- 
man she  had  learned  to  trust.  The  aureole  glimmered  tran- 
siently: she  could  neither  think  highly  of  the  woman  about  to 
be  wedded  nor  poetically  of  the  man;  nor,  therefore,  rosily 
of  the  ceremony,  nor  other  than  vacuously  of  life.  And  yet, 
as  she  avowed  to  Emma,  she  had  gathered  the  three  rarest 
good  things  of  life:  a  faithful  friend,  a  faithful  lover,  a  faith- 
ful servant:  the  two  latter  exposing  an  unimagined  quality  of 
emotion.  Danvers,  on  the  night  of  the  great  day  for  Red- 
worth,  had  undressed  her  with  trembling  fingers,  and  her  mis- 
tress was  led  to  the  knowledge  that  the  maid  had  always  been 
all  eye;  and  on  reflection  to  admit  that  it  came  of  a  sym- 
pathy she  did  not  share. 

But  when  Celtic  brains  are  reflective  on  their  emotional 
vassal  they  shoot  direct  as  the  arrow  of  logic.  Diana's  glance 
at  the  years  behind  lighted  every  moving  figure  to  a  shrewd 
transparency,  herself  among  them.  She  was  driven  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  granting  of  any  of  her  heart's  wild  wishes  in 
those  days  would  have  lowered  her — or  frozen.  Dacier  was 
a  coldly  luminous  image;  still  a  tolling  name — no  longer  con- 
ceivably her  mate.  Recollection  rocked,  not  she.  The  poli- 
tician and  citizen  was  admired:  she  read  the  man — more  to 
her  own  discredit  than  to  his — but  she  read  him;  and  if  that 
is  done  by  the  one  of  two  lovers  who  was  true  to  love  it  is 
the  god  of  the  passion  pronouncing  a  final  release  from  the 
shadow  of  his  chains. 

Three  days  antecedent  to  her  marriage  she  went  down  the 
hill  over  her  cottage  chimneys  with  Redworth,  after  hearing 
him  praise  and  cite  to  Emma  Dunstane  sentences  of  a  morn- 
ing's report  of  a  speech  delivered  by  Dacier  to  his  constituents. 
She  alluded  to  it  that  she  might  air  her  power  of  speaking  of 
the  man  coolly  to  him,  or  else  for  the  sake  of  stirring  afresh 
some  sentiment  he  had  roused;  and  he  repeated  his  high  opin- 
ion of  the  orator's  political  wisdom:  whereby  was  revived  in 
her  memory  a  certain  reprehensible  view,  belonging  to  her 
period  of  mock-girlish  naughtiness — too  vile! — as  to  his  pater- 
nal benevolence,  now  to  clear  vision  the  loftiest  manliness. 
What  did  she  do?  She  was  Irish;  therefore  intuitively  de- 
corous in  amatory  challen,s:es  and  interchanges.  But  she  was 
an  impulsive  woman  and  foliage  was  thick  around,  only  a  few 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  389 

small  birds  and  Heaven  seeing;  and  penitence  and  admiration 
sprang  the  impulse.  It  had  to  be  this  or  a  burst  of  weeping: 
she  put  a  kiss  upon  his  arm. 

She  had  omitted  to  think  that  she  was  dealing  with  a  lover 
a  man  of  smothered  fire,  who  would  be  electrically  alive  to 
the  act  through  a  coat-sleeve.  Redworth  had  his  impulse.  He 
kept  it  under;  she  felt  the  big  breath  he  drew  in.  Imagina- 
tion began  busily  building  a  nest  for  him,  and  enthusiasm  was 
not  sluggish  to  make  a  home  of  it.  The  impulse  of  each  had 
wedded — in  expression  and  repression;  her  sensibility  told  her 
of  the  stronger. 

She  rose  on  the  morning  of  her  marriage  day  with  his  fav- 
orite Planxty  Kelly  at  her  lips,  a  natural  bubble  of  the  notes. 
Emma  drove  down  to  the  cottage  to  breakfast  and  superin- 
tend her  bride's  adornment,  as  to  which  Diana  had  spoken 
slightingly,  as  well  as  of  the  ceremony,  and  the  institution, 
and  this  life  itself:  she  would  be  married  out  of  her  cottage — 
a  widow,  a  cottager,  a  woman  under  a  cloud;  yes,  u  sober  per- 
son taking  at  last  a  right  practical  step  to  please  her  two  best 
friends.  The  change  was  marked.  She  wished  to  hide  it, 
wished  to  confide  it.  Emma  was  asked,  "How  is  he  this  morn- 
ing?" and  at  the  answer,  describing  his  fresh  and  spirited 
looks,  and  his  kind  ways  with  Arthur  Rhodes  and  his  fun  with 
Sullivan  Smith,  and  the  satisfaction  with  the  bridegroom  de- 
clared by  Lord  Larrian  (invalided  from  his  Rock  and  unex- 
pectingly  informed  of  the  wedding),  Diana  forgot  that  she  had 
kissed  her,  and  this  time  pressed  her  lips  in  a  manner  to  convey 
the  secret  bridally. 

'*He  has  a  lovely  day." 

'*And  bride,"  said  p]mma. 

"If  you  two  think  so!  I  should  like  to  agree  with  my 
dear  old  lord  and  bless  him  for  the  prize  he  takes,  though 
it  feels  itself  at  present  rather  like  a  Christmas  bon-bon — a 
piece  of  sugar  in  the  wrap  of  a  rhymed  motto.  He  is  kind  to 
Arthur,  you  say?" 

"Like  a  cordial  elder  brother." 

"Dear  love,  I  have  it  at  heart  that  I  was  harsh  upon  Mary 
Paynham  for  her  letter.  She  meant  well — and  I  fear  she  suf- 
fers. And  it  may  have  been  a  bit  my  fault.  Blind  that  I  was! 
When  you  say  'cordial  elder  brother'  you  make  him  appear 
beautiful  to  me.  The  worst  of  that  is,  one  becomes  aware  of 
the  inability  to  match  him." 


390  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

"Read  with  his  eyes  when  you  meet  him  this  morning,  my 
Tony." 

The  secret  was  being  clearly  perceived  by  Emma,  whose 
pride  in  assisting  to  dress  the  beautiful  creature  for  her  mar- 
riage with  the  man  of  men  had  a  tinge  from  the  hymeneal 
brand,  exulting  over  Dacier,  and  in  the  compensation  coming 
to  her  beloved  for  her  first  luckless  footing  on  this  road. 

"How  does  he  go  down  to  the  church?"  said  Diana. 

"He  walks  down.  Lukin  and  his  chief  drive.  He  walks, 
with  your  Arthur  and  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith.  He  is  on  his  way 
now." 

Diana  looked  through  the  window  in  the  direction  of  the 
hill.    "That  is  so  like  him,  to  walk  to  his  wedding!" 

Emma  took  the  place  of  Danvers  in  the  office  of  robing, 
for  the  maid,  as  her  mistress  managed  to  hint,  was  too 
steeped  'in  the  color  of  the  occasion'  to  be  exactly  tasteful, 
and  had  the  art,  no  doubt  through  sympathy,  of  charging  per- 
missible common  words  with  explosive  meanings — she  was  in 
an  amorous  palpitation,  of  the  reflected  state.  After  several 
knockings  and  enterings  of  the  bed-chamber-door  she  came 
hurriedly  to  say,  "And  your  pillow,  ma'am?  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten it!"  A  question  that  caused  her  mistress  to  drop  the 
gaze  of  a  moan  on  Emma,  with  patience  trembling.  Diana  pre- 
ferred a  hard  pillow,  and  usually  carried  her  own  about.  "Take 
it,"  she  had  to  reply. 

The  friends  embraced  before  descending  to  step  into  the 
fateful  carriage.  "And  tell  me,"  P^mma  said,  "are  not  your 
views  of  life  brighter  to-day?" 

"Too  dazzled  to  know!  It  may  be  a  lamp  close  to  the  eyes 
or  a  radiance  of  sun.    I  hope  they  are." 

"You  are  beginning  to  think  hopefully  again?" 

"Who  can  really  think,  and  not  think  hopefully?  You  were 
in  my  mind  last  night,  and  you  brought  a  little  boat  to  sail 
me  past  despondency  of  life  and  the  fear  of  extinction.  When 
we  despair  or  discolor  things  it  is  our  senses  in  revolt,  and  they 
have  made  the  sovereign  brain  their  drudge.  I  heard  you 
whisper,  with  your  very  breath  in  my  ear,  'There  is  nothing 
the  body  suffers  that  the  soul  may  not  profit  by.'  That  is 
Emma's  history.  With  that  I  sail  into  the  dark;  it  is  my  prom- 
ise of  the  immortal:  teaches  me  to  see  immortality  for  us.  It 
comes  from  you,  my  Emmy." 

If  not  a  great  saying,  it  was  in  the  heart  of  deep  thoughts: 
proof  to  Emma  that  her  Tony's  mind  had  resumed  its  old  clear 


DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS.  391 

high-aiming  activity;  therefore  that  her  nature  was  working 
sanely,  and  that  she  accepted  her  happiness,  and  bore  love  for 
a  dower  to  her  husband.  No  blushing  confession  of  the  wom- 
an's love  of  the  man  would  have  told  her  so  much  as  the  re- 
turn to  mental  harmony  with  the  laws  of  life  shown  in  her  dar- 
ling^s  pellucid  little  sentence. 

She  revolved  it  long  after  the  day  of  the  wedding.  To  Emma, 
constantly  on  the  dark  decline  of  the  unillumined  verge,  be- 
tween the  two  worlds,  those  words  were  a  radiance  and  a  nour- 
ishment. Had  they  waned  she  would  have  trimmed  them  to 
feed  her  during  her  soul-sister^s  absence.  They  shone  to  her 
of  their  vitality.  She  was  lying  along  her  sofa,  facing  her 
southwestern  window,  one  afternoon  of  late  November,  ex- 
pecting Tony  from  her  lengthened  honeymoon  trip,  while  a 
sunset  in  the  van  of  frost,  not  without  celestial  musical  re- 
minders of  Tony's  husband,  began  to  deepen;  and  as  her 
friend  was  coming  she  mused  on  the  scenes  of  her  friend's  de- 
parture, and  how  Tony,  issuing  from  her  cottage  porch,  had 
betrayed  her  feelings  in  the  language  of  her  sex  by  stooping  to 
lift  above  her  head  and  kiss  the  smallest  of  her  landlady's  chil- 
dren ranged  up  the  garden-path  to  bid  her  farewell  over  their 
strewing  of  flowers; — and  of  her  murmur  to  Tony,  entering 
the  churchyard,  among  the  gravemounds,  "Old  Ireland  won't 
repent  it!"  and  Tony's  rejoinder,  at  the  sight  of  the  bride- 
groom advancing,  beaming,  "A  singular  transformation  of  Old 
England!" — and  how,  having  numberless  ready  sources  of 
laughter  and  tears  down  the  run  of  their  heart-in-heart  inti- 
macy, all  spouting  up  for  a  word  in  the  happy  tremor  of  the 
moment,  they  had  both  bitten  their  lips  and  blinked  on  a 
moisture  of  the  eyelids.  Now  the  dear  woman  was  really 
wedded,  wedded  and  mated.  Her  letters  breathed,  in  their 
own  lively  or  thoughtful  flow,  of  the  perfect  mating.  Emma 
gazed  into  the  depths  of  the  waves  of  crimson,  where  brilliancy 
of  color  came  out  of  central  heaven  preternaturally  near  on 
earth,  till  one  shade  less  brilliant  seemed  an  ebbing  away  to 
boundless  remoteness.  Angelical  and  mortal  mixed,  making 
the  glory  overhead  a  sign  of  the  close  union  of  our  human  con- 
ditions with  the  etherial  and  psychically  divined.  Thence  it 
grew  that  one  thought  in  her  breast  became  a  desire  for  such 
extension  of  days  as  would  give  her  the  blessedness  to  clasp  in 
her  lap — if  those  kind  heavens  vrould  grant  it! — a  child  of  the 
marriage  of  the  two  noblest  of  human  souls,  one  the  dearest; 
and  so  have  proof  at  heart  that  her  country  and  our  earth 


392  DIANA    OF    THE    CROSSWAYS. 

are  fruitful  in  the  good,  for  a  glowing  future.  She  was  deeply 
a  woman,  dumbly  a  poet.  True  poets  and  true  women  have 
the  native  sense  of  the  divineness  of  what  the  world  deems 
gross  material  substance.  Emma^s  exaltation  in  fervor  had  not 
subsided  when  she  held  her  beloved  in  her  arms  under  the  dusk 
of  the  withdrawing  redness.  They  sat  embraced,  with  hands 
locked,  in  the  unlighted  room,  and  Tony  spoke  of  the  splendid 
sky.     "You  watched  it  knowing  1  was  on  my  way  to  you?'' 

"Praying,  dear." 

"Forme?" 

"That  I  might  live  long  enough  to  be  a  godmother." 

There  was  no  reply:  there  was  an  involuntary  little  twitch 
of  Tony's  fingers. 


THE   END. 


JU 


1  A    T^  A^7    TTCT? 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY—TEL  NO.  642^405 

I  This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
•  on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


.t!F,P  10!I970  3  8 


iMiD  L0   ^Pi<    2,  "/i^  'y  M  -^  " 


Due  end  of  SUMMER  Pojiod 
subject  to  recall  after 


^^g£g  S£Pj 


M; 


^^  •  1380 

t^OV  2  2  i9&0 


JUL    8   '73 


^73 


v'^PAfj 


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reccikaugo  1'80 


APR  1  8  1981 


IT 


LD21A-60m-3,'70 
(N5382sl0)476-A-31 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


CDSSE^fls^E 


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